


Children of the Revolution

by AlexisVV



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Dark, F/M, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-14
Updated: 2017-12-17
Packaged: 2018-03-17 20:01:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 17
Words: 77,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3542057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlexisVV/pseuds/AlexisVV
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU. In a world where Sybil Trelawney is never born, the prophecy remains, but goes unheard. How different will Harry Potter's life be, growing up in a world where Voldemort won? How long until a brilliant young man is noticed by the ever more brilliant Dark Lord?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Beginnings

**Author's Note:**

> Hello all, and welcome to COTR. I do hope you enjoy the story, and I plan to update this as regularly as possible. This fic will be very eventual. I warn you that pretty soon, there's going to be a lot going on.  
> Rest assured though, Harry won't be eleven for very much longer. I just have a few loose ends to tie up here before we move onto the good stuff!}
> 
> (I haven't used AO3 before. Still getting used to it, so please bear with me!)
> 
> \- Also, I've used some tags on here that I might not actually need, but I thought I'd post them just in case. I don't entirely know where this story is going.

**Chapter 1: Beginnings.**

**November 10th 1981**

On the day a King is made, the battlefields bleed red.

On the day a King is made, the world weeps crimson tears for the fallen defeated.

On the day the Dark Lord was declared the 'Leader of Wizarding Britain', the day was marked only by the occasional flash of deadly green.

They were winning. The Dark Lord's forces had taken Hogwarts almost a year prior; the Ministry, in it's corruption, was but a façade that Voldemort now controlled. All that was left, in the end, was to kill the one Wizard that had ever proved to be a challenge: Albus Dumbeldore.

It was almost anticlimactic at the finish. There was no beautiful show down; no meeting of great minds, on some pathetic fallacy ridden day. The Dark Lords spies finally gained enough information to find the entrance to the Order of Phoenix's most secure base. The full wrath of his army descended.  
Many died that day. Some of them were weak, some of them were strong; some fought to the bitter end, and some begged for their lives from the start. They all died in the end – the very last of the _rebels._

When Dumbeldore died, it was not because Voldemort was definitely the stronger wizard. By the time Voldemort found him, he was already tired and wounded from some unknown battle that had happened quite before the arrival of the Death Eaters. To this day, Voldemort did not know what had caused those wounds that gave them the final advantage, and somewhat ruined his expectations of their last stand; it irked him that he did not.

Voldemort did not mock him as he fell, and felt no great victory for causing him to. The old man died with a sad, knowing look on his wisened face and the last word he had said in the land of the living was "Gellert." – which confirmed a long-held suspicion that Dumbeldore had died with his fair share of secrets.

There was a silence then in the sprawling, underground structure. The silence seemed to extend out into infinity, and for a moment Voldemort had felt almost lost. He had spent his whole life planning this moment, and here it was. He had expected a sharper taste of victory, to feel the intangible elation of getting exactly what he wanted. He felt nothing. Lord Voldemort always felt nothing.

Just when the silence was threatening to swallow the very last of his sanity, it was broken.  
Not by the last cries of rebels, or the celebrations of his Death Eaters… but by the cries of a baby. Following the sound, Voldemort found himself in a small room – half blown apart by the battle - where there were two cribs side-by-side. One of the children, a chubby babe with brown eyes was crying. The other child, a dark haired boy with green eyes, was staring at him - almost pointedly not making a sound.  
Moments later, Voldemort was joined by his right-hand woman, Bellatrix Lestrange.

She too, seemed oddly effected by the end of the battle. Her blood-thirst was legendary, and here she was with him at the finish line, unsure.  
After a long moment, she spoke:  
"Do you want me to kill them?" she asked, softly. Her voice held none of its usual glee over the prospect of the bloodshed, and it was likely that the massacre of the previous hours had been enough to quench even her thirst. He also suspected that Bellatrix found no fun in the murder of infants, who could not understand enough to feel true fear.

"Who are they?" he asked. His weariness would have been evident, had he not been so naturally poised.

Bellatrix waved her wand with an almost bored expression, and the names of the children appeared in a floating black mist above their heads.  
"Harry Potter and Neville Longbottom." read Bellatrix seeming thoughtful, and then added. "Pure blood names."

For a moment, Voldemort did consider just killing the children and ending the problem. Their parents had been thorns in his side for quite some time, and important in the rebellion against him.  
His gaze was drawn to the green-eyed child, the quiet one. The tot still held his gaze, and if Voldemort hadn't known that the child was not yet old enough to understand what had just happened, he'd have thought his expression was almost accusatory.

"Let them live." he relented, finally. "Their parents may have been fools, but they were far from squibs. We need children; we have a world to build."

And with that, Voldemort swept away. It was the first time Harry James Potter would ever draw the attention of the Dark Lord.

It would not be the last.

* * *

**August 20th 1991**

The Orphanage sat on the side of a quiet hill in the middle of nowhere; a field lost within a sea of other fields, deep in the heart of the Yorkshire countryside. This could have been for many reasons; the air of the dales is said to be some of the cleanest, freshest air in all of England and it couldn't be so bad for the three hundred or so children that lived there, to grow up with their lungs full of the stuff.  
Another possible reason is for building was large, and made of a bright, white stone that bore a startling resemblance to a fairytale castle and would undoubtedly draw the attention of passersby. Luckily - being in the middle of nowhere – there were unlikely to be many passersby.

'Really though' thought an eleven year-old Harry Potter as he smiled out of one of the many windows of the Dining Hall, onto the sunbathed meadow below. 'It's probably because of all the broomsticks'.

Harry Potter had been living at 'Malfoy Orphanage' for the past eight years, and in his opinion, it was the best place in the world.

'Not that I have much to compare to' he relented, internally. At the tender age of eleven, Harry had seen very little of the world outside of the orphanage; he could remember only very brief flashes of his life before he was brought there.  
Of course, he'd been on outings to places like Diagon Alley, Hogsmeade - and every year the orphanage took groups of them on holidays to different "secure areas" across Europe. This however, did not count as experiencing the world to Harry, as these occasions had always been under the watchful eyes of the many staff.

His days here were usually spent in a sort of lazy, blissful haze. Mornings were usually spent in lessons where they taught the children Mathematics, reading and writing, French, and everything else they'd need to get along in the world before they went to Hogwarts.  
His afternoons were far more adventurous; Harry loved to fly, and he was good at it too. He also spent a fair amount of time getting up to mischief with his closest friends, much to the ire of the staff.  
Harry had always been an extroverted, friendly boy and so had made a large group of friends at the orphanage. His closest friends were all his own age, as they shared the same classes and had mostly grown up together; Terry Boot, Dean Thomas, and Hermione Granger were among that number and were presently lining up with him.

With a grin, Harry allowed himself to be ushered into line with the 30 or so other children.  
'How could I have been thinking of anything else?' Harry thought, excitedly. 'Today I get my wand!'

* * *

Far away from the orphanage, in the grand castle that the Wizarding World knew as Hogwarts, the most important Wizard in the world felt a quite involuntary thrill of excitement.  
He frowned momentarily at the distraction. These pesky, fleeting emotions were becoming somewhat of a curiosity to the Dark Lord. Mostly, this was because he very rarely experienced sensations that were so… pure, in their texture. It was also because he was quite sure that said emotions were not coming from him.  
He had felt them sporadically throughout the last few years, and had mostly ignored them as some sort of psychological hiccup (he was, after all, still somewhat human), but they had been increasing in frequency for the past several months and their magical signature was becoming more and more apparent. He filed this away for later consideration.

Looking up, Voldemort noticed that the thirteen death eaters present were watching him with what can only be described as bated breath. He had, after all, stopped mid-sentence and made an expression of displeasure and confusion – less than this had lead him to use unforgivables and worse in the past.  
With a smirk of unbidden amusement, he lounged back on his throne-like chair and observed them for a moment longer, wondering who the first person would be that dared to breathe.

"My Lord…?" came the careful voice of Lucius Malfoy, who was perched two seats down from his Master. The Death eaters were currently having their meeting around a long, polished wooden table. "You were speaking about the curriculum."

"Do you imagine that I have lost my train of thought, Lucius?" asked Voldemort lazily, giving the man what could only be described as a wolfish smile.

"No, My Lord." Lucius responded, quickly.  
Voldemort almost rolled his eyes; as much as he had enjoyed teaching his Death Eaters submission, he would be far more amused if they had a little backbone.

"As I was saying," he continued, being perfectly aware of where he had left off. "I am pleased with the improvements that have been made to the Hogwarts Curriculum, and of the general improvement of the student body-"  
Severus Snape, Bellatrix Lestrange and Regulus Black all received several nods at this. They had been teachers at Hogwarts for several years now, and had been instrumental in the implementation of these changes.  
"-However, I fear that some of the student body are not being sufficiently challenged. I will not have our most talented be dragged down by the incompetence of their peers. An advanced program will be set up for students that show promise, and I expect a list of students by Yule; the teaching of these classes will begin sometime after the Yule holidays."  
There were several more nods, and Voldemort looked expectantly at them, non-verbally inviting questions. Severus was the first to comment.

"Will these advanced lessons be an accelerated program of a particular subject, for students who show promise in said subject? Or were you thinking more of a generally more advanced program for the all-round gifted?"

Tom considered this carefully before responding. "More the latter, however if a student does show a significant aptitude for a particular subject, it may be prudent to give them some individual tutelage from that subjects teacher."  
He waved his hand, a universal symbol that he was now bored with the topic.

Voldemort continued, racing through his internal agenda so that he could be away from this dull meeting as quickly as possible.  
"Verity." He turned his attention to the middle-aged woman sat somewhat towards the bottom of the table. She was the daughter of one of his oldest death-eaters, who had passed away quite recently from a rather unusual case of dragon pox. She was fervently loyal to the Dark Lord, and managed a lot of his dealings with ministry legislation. "You recently contacted me with regards to our laws regarding muggle-borns."

"Yes." said Verity, her tone reserved and eloquent. "As you know, as it stands, the law decrees that muggle-borns are secondary citizens and not afforded the same rights regarding the ownership of property, wages, and various other facets of life." There was a murmuring around the table, and a general support of this fact. "However, the Ministry and public are posing the question as to whether this law will extend to those raised in our orphanages, or just those that received their wands prior to the war."

There was a pregnant pause about the table, as many considered their own views on the subject. Mudbloods, of course, had always been a source of derision to the mostly pure-blooded Death Eaters. However, with regards to the children of the orphanages, there was a lot more to consider. Voldemort voiced this a moment later:  
"This is something that will have to be very carefully considered." He nodded thoughtfully to himself. "While I detest all that is muggle, and in the old world, muggle-borns were a window to their weak, crumbling world – this is no longer the case. As we know, muggle-borns are identical to their pureblood counterparts in terms of magic ability - and indeed, somewhere in their distant ancestry, do have magical blood. The problems of them bringing a filthy culture into our world is being erased; these children are raised together in the Wizarding world, away from the influence of lesser beings. By the time they reach Hogwarts, they have no loyalty left to their muggle families. Indeed, Verity, it is a point I will consider very carefully."  
Verity, ever the diplomat, nodded appreciatively.

* * *

When Harry first touched the wand that would become his, it was like the whole world had filled with warmth. A happy, tingling sensation travelled down his arm and into his chest. The man before him gave him a wary half-smile.  
Along the line, almost all of the other children had already received their wands and were excitedly chattering away with their peers. It had been a great relief to Harry, when after thirty-six different attempts, his wand had finally found him.

"Curious…" said the famous wand-maker. Ollivander was well known as being the best in Europe, perhaps even the world, and Harry afforded him every possible respect. "Curious indeed..."

"What's curious?" asked Harry, a little bewildered by the cryptic tone of the old man. Nobody was listening to their conversation; the rest of the children were preoccupied with their new wands, and the adults were preoccupied trying to get the children not to use their new wands.

Ollivander considered the boy, seeming to choose his words carefully. "The phoenix feather contained within that wand was a powerful, proud creature." Harry listened with fascination, and he felt his fingers on the wand tingle at the positive description. "And it only ever gave one other feather; the Wizard that is Master of that wand went on to do brilliant things. Terrible, but brilliant." The old wand maker looked both tired and interested. "What did you say your name was, Child?"

"Harry Potter" he murmured, too engrossed in his new wand to notice the grave expression of the wand-maker.

"Well, Harry Potter, I believe you too will do great things." with that, the man offered him a sad smile and began to walk away, (much to Harry's relief, as he was a bit strange). As he left, Harry distinctly thought he heard the man mutter under his breath "terrible… but great."

He really didn't know what to make of that.

 


	2. The Garden Escapade

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys. Thanks for the amazing reviews on the last chapter. I have quite a few chapters already written, so I'll be posting them very soon :)

_**August 30** **th** **1991** _

In the middle of the Yorkshire countryside, in a minor castle full of magical children, Harry Potter lay awake late in the night. In one of the many small dormitories, he was sprawled atop of the covers, deep in pensive thought. The three other boys that shared the dormitory were sleeping soundly, and their deep, rhythmic breathing was almost meditative for Harry. He'd become accustomed to the sound after so many years.  
Harry sat up, staring at the boys searchingly through the dimness of the room. He could see that their faces were placid, appearing without a concern in the world, which was to be expected. One of the boys, Ricardo, had already been attending Hogwarts for a year and therefore felt nothing but excitement at the prospect of returning. The other two would not be attending for another year, being several months younger than Harry, and so need not phase themselves with the thought as of yet. He sighed.

Rising from the bed, he walked over to the window, and perched himself on the wide window ledge. In the time he had lived in this dormitory, he must have found himself awake and peering up at the moon from this position a thousand times. He leaned his head against the cool glass and contented himself with picking out the constellations from the clear night sky above; he'd always had a great memory, and a couple of years ago, he'd made a hobby of learning the names of the stars and galaxies. His favorite was quite predictably Ursa Major, being the constellation he could find even on the dim or cloudy nights.

A slight creaking of old hinges snapped Harry out of his reverie, and he was unsurprised to see the pajama clad figure of an eleven-year-old girl in the doorway, a bashful look on her face. He offered her a warm smile, and gestured for her to come over; she tiptoed across the wooden floorboards carefully, despite the fact that his roommates were notoriously deep sleepers.  
Without a word, the girl clambered up onto the windowsill and into the waiting arms of one of her best friends. She leaned against him, joining him in staring up at the night sky.

"Do you think we'll like it there, Harry?" she whispered after a long moment.

Harry drew her closer. "I don't know, 'Mione. I hope so, though. We'll finally be able to use magic properly."  
Hermione nodded to herself, quite comfortable against his chest. Over the years, Harry and Hermione had become as close as siblings, and she was amongst the few he could be completely himself around. She knew every worry and insecurity he had, and didn't judge him for it. Hermione wasn't the kind of friend he'd want to pull a prank on, or play quidditch with, but the kind he wanted when he was unsure of himself and needed someone who knew him so completely.

"I finally read Hogwarts: A History, by the way." Harry muttered sleepily against her bushy hair.

"You did?" she whispered back, enthusiastically. "What did you think to the chapter about the forbidden forest?"

"It was pretty cool. I can't wait to ex-" he paused. "It was interesting."

Hermione sat up and peered at him, giving him a motherly expression of displeasure. "Harry James Potter, if you get yourself into trouble at Hogwarts I will personally hex you!" Harry smirked back at her, and she smiled indulgently, until a look of worry clouded her expression. "Are you afraid of Him, Harry?" she whispered even lower than before.

"Of who?" he asked, nonplussed. A Heartbeat later. "Oh. Do you mean the Dark Lord?" She nodded mutely, and he considered his answer. "I haven't given it much thought. I mean he's not at the school all that often, is he? He's got better things to do than bother with some first years anyways. I mean, I know he wasn't keen on our kind." he trailed off. This was a point he and Hermione had argued over many times in the past. "But we aren't like them. I doubt he'll affect us much."  
she nodded, willing to accept this answer for now.

Ten minutes passed much like that, with them contentedly looking up at the night sky and occasionally talking in low voices about what they knew about Hogwarts; what they were looking forward to, and what they were nervous about. This probably would have - and had in the past - gone on for many hours, if not for what Harry spotted in the gardens below.

"Hermione, do you see that?" he asked, suddenly shifting to peer down. Hermione repositioned herself so she too could look down into the gloom.

"It's a grown up. Maybe just one of the staff?" she responded, neutrally

Harry shook his head. "Whomever it is, they're wearing a long cloak and covering their face. Doesn't that seem suspicious to you?"

Hermione nodded, a vaguely worried look on her face.  
"Oh look!" she exclaimed, albeit quietly. "There is another two of them. What on earth?"

"What if they're up to something?" Harry whispered back urgently. "Or they're vampires? Or muggles?!"

"Muggles? What would muggles be doing here? Don't be silly, Harry."

Harry and Hermione didn't especially know much about muggles, apart from that they hated magic, and that's why many of them had been removed from their care shortly after birth. They'd always seemed like fairytale villains to the children of Malfoy Orphanage, and that was exactly how the ministry liked it.

"We have to stop them!" Harry announced. The pondering of a boy too clever for his own good were quickly replaced by the wild actions of any brazen eleven year old.

"Stop them?!" Hermione looked aghast. "Are you kidding? We've had our wands a week! We're not even supposed to use them!"

"We're allowed to use them in the event of an emergency! Come on, Mione!" and without another word, he leapt of the windowsill, grabbed his wand, and fled the room. Sighing, Hermione had little choice but to follow him.

* * *

Voldemort looked up at the pristine white orphanage studiously, taking a steadying breath and closing his eyes momentarily. It wasn't often that he came here, and when he did, it was only out of necessity. He'd never been particularly fond of orphanages, even ones that he'd personally insured were kept to his rigorous standards. He might be a cruel bastard, which he would freely admit, but he wouldn't subject any magical child to the upbringing he'd had in muggle London; especially, he suddenly thought, when it might produce another Dark Lord to be his rival. He found himself involuntarily smiling at the thought of having a protégé, but cast this aside quickly in distaste. When you are immortal, you cannot raise heirs, only competitors.  
Regaining his composure, he pushed himself to concentrate and become wholly aware of his surroundings. Tonight, he was there to strengthen the wards surrounding the orphanage. Small pockets of resistance were beginning to emerge in isolated areas of Europe, and he could not have them using the children here to aid their regime.  
At his back were Bellatrix Lestrange and Lucius Malfoy. He'd brought Lucius along because he was the patron of the orphanage, and thus had to make an appearance every now and then. He'd be staying at the orphanage for two days, when the children that were old enough to attend Hogwarts left via port key. Bellatrix, he had brought purely because reconstructing wards required him to somewhat take his guard down, and she was the closest thing the Dark Lord had to someone he could trust. Indeed, he had even made her Head Mistress of Hogwarts; despite her madness, she was a clever and powerful witch, and a loyal sycophant.

When he next opened his eyes, he saw the blue pulsating sphere that was the magic of the orphanage wards. Smiling in satisfaction, he laid a hand upon the dome and let magic flow from his core to the tight knot at the center of the wards – it's center of power. There were none better than the dark lord at this kind of magic, and their secrets made his almost impenetrable.  
It took him a few minutes to finish his work, and he completed it with an elaborate flourish of his right hand. Only his eyes could see the way the glowing knot tightened, and another layer of skin-like magic enveloped the previous layers. The wards briefly glowed, and then became invisible once again.

"Lucius." He said, his voice low but with the unmistakable ring of authority.

"Yes, my Lord?"

"Bring me the port keys." He commanded.

"Yes, my Lord." Lucius bowed, presenting several shining pebbles of quartz to the Dark Lord, who would need to add the coordinates of Hogwarts to them before they could be used. He began to draw his wand, when he was suddenly distracted.

"Halt!" came a small voice from the gloom of the garden.

"Harry, wait for me!" came another, higher voice.

Lucius drew his wand, while Bellatrix grinned excitedly at the prospect of a fight. The Dark Lord merely looked bemused, and cast a bright Lumos maxima into the garden, which revealed the startled figures of two children. Bellatrix cackled, amused, while Lucius was quick to tuck his wand away in embarrassment.  
The boy was quick to regain his composure, and approached the three, while the girl hung behind him with a nervous expression on her face. They both appeared to be dressed in their nightclothes.

"What are you doing here?" demanded the boy, glowering at them.

"Aww, maybe we're here to eat you, itty baby boy!" Bellatrix said with glee, always enjoying it when the unexpected happened.

"I told you they were bad guys!" exclaimed Harry to the girl, who was trying, in vain, to pull the boy back.

"Are you muggles?" the boy demanded, raising the wand which, by the looks of it, he barely knew how to use.

A look of outrage was quick to come upon Bellatrix's face, but Voldemort held a hand up to silence her as he chuckled.  
"And what if we are, boy? What do you plan to do about it?"

This seemed to stump the boy for a moment, before he quickly found an answer.  
"I will report you to the ministry of magic!"

This brought a delighted smile back to the face of Bellatrix, and even Lucius was caused to smile.  
"And who's to say we won't slaughter you before you can leave the garden?" continued the Dark Lord, almost amused by the antics of the children.

"I wouldn't if I were you…" began the boy, a look of concern crossing his features, as he pushed the girl behind him.

"And why not?" hissed the Dark Lord, enjoying himself.

"Because if you do…" the boy looked like he was thinking very quickly, through his worry, until an idea clearly struck him. "If you hurt me, or anyone else in this building, then the Dark Lord will make you pay! He's the most powerful person in the whole world, and he hates muggles, and if you hurt us he'll avenge us!"

This answer seemed to stun even Bellatrix, not expecting such a powerful statement of faith in him, whom they clearly did not even recognise. It was difficult, occasionally, to remember that these children had been raised in their ways and customs - to respect the dark arts and Voldemort - especially when one could so often see the resemblance the children had to their light families, or knew that they had once been loved by their muggle parents.  
After a moment, Bellatrix sauntered up to the boy, and ruffled his hair affectionately; the ever-present madness in her eyes mixed with her own brand of warmth. She pulled her wand out when the boy began to look outraged, and both the children sagged with relief.

"Thank Morgana." muttered the girl.

"We thought you were muggles, trying to break in and kill us." The boy said, flashing a dazzling smile. The child looked very different when he wasn't failing to look threatening.

Lucius nodded sagely at the boy. "Your actions show the right mindset, but your actions were brash and uncouth. In future, you should not challenge an opponent you cannot take on."

Bellatrix pouted at Lucius. "Don't be such a bore! They were fun!" she cackled.  
Voldemort found himself smiling, despite himself, and Lucius ceased his scolding at that. He couldn't shake the amusement that he'd just been threatened with himself by a couple of school children. Feeling uncharacteristically light hearted, the Dark Lord swept across the garden and into the door of the orphanage.

"Come along." He called to his servants and the children.

* * *

Harry was relieved by the unexpected turn of events. When actually faced with the threat of three possibly homicidal muggles, he had found himself quite helpless. Of course had been prepared to do everything he could to defend his friends at the Orphanage, but without any knowledge of magic, he was little more help in that situation than a muggle would've been. He shivered at the thought, and found himself even more eager to get to Hogwarts and learn magic.

He now found himself back inside the warmth of the house, following the mysterious wizards and witch that had been in the garden. Now he'd had time to calm down, he felt a little knot of dread reappearing, of a far more childish kind. He just hoped they wouldn't tell the staff here what he'd done. Hermione would never forgive him if he got her into trouble again!  
They didn't say a word as the in-charge seeming wizard lead them into the kitchens, and gestured for them to sit down at the table. The wild haired woman sat to Harry's left, and the longhaired man sat at the other side of the table, nearest Hermione. The leader sat central, and wandlessly conjured drinks to the table. A house elf also appeared, a moment later.

"Tinky, bring snacks. Preferably something sweet." ordered Lucius to the elf, that disappeared and reappeared moments later, adorning the table with cookies and cakes. Harry and Hermione contained their surprise, wondering how on earth the night had ended up like this.

"So." Began the woman, her eyes gleaming in the candlelight of the kitchen. "What are your names?" she glanced at Hermione first, arching an eyebrow.

"Hermione Granger." She nodded at the older witch, who sniffed.

"A mudblood then?" asked Bellatrix derisively, eyeing the girl.

"Yes, unfortunately." Said Hermione, unbothered by the commonplace accusation. Hermione was well aware of the prejudice against her kind, and even agreed with some of it. At one point, mudbloods had brought danger to the Wizarding world with their muggle ways. "But I don't remember my parents, or care to. I'm as much a witch as any."

This was surprisingly confident for Hermione, who tended to be nervous in new company. Bellatrix looked thoughtful for a moment, before nodding.  
"Bellatrix Lestrange."

Harry looked quickly to Hermione, eyes wide as they registered this new revelation. Bellatrix Lestrange was, as he had recently found in his reading, the Head Mistress of Hogwarts. There was a brief, tense silence as even the wizards that had been conversing in low voices across the table paused to look over at them. The dark haired mans eyes shined with mirth. Harry was the first to break the silence.

"We are so dead." he muttered, mostly to himself, to which Bellatrix laughed.

Hermione looked ready to kill him at that, and words came tumbling from her.  
"We are very sorry, Professor Lestrange." Hermione wrung her hands. "If we had known…" she trailed off, biting her lip.

Bellatrix waved this aside, good naturedly. "Don't worry yourself, kittens. I like a bit of fire in my students, provides me with entertainment when they're trying to make me fill out paperwork." She stuck out her tongue, causing him and Hermione to laugh.

Harry tentatively took a cookie, while Hermione began to converse with Bellatrix. The headmistress seemed to have taken a shine to the girl, as Hermione questioned her on every aspect of her career; she'd always admired the woman for her prodigious skill from the battle field to school examinations. The two wizards continued to talk amongst themselves in low voices, and Harry filled himself up on the sweets they were rarely allowed here.

When the conversation between Bellatrix and Hermione finally turned towards dueling, Harry perked up.  
"Is it true that you're the second best dueler in the world?" Harry asked, excitedly. He'd seen the Hogwarts curriculum, and couldn't wait to begin learning Dark Arts and Light Arts, the two sides of combative magic. Bellatrix, who seemed to enjoy this attention, beamed.

"Yes, if I do say so myself. Second only to our Lord himself, in fact."

"What's he like in a duel? The Dark Lord, I mean?"

Bellatrix gave Harry an indulgent look, and glanced at the men across the table.  
"Incredible." She said, smiling. "He weaves magic with such ease, you'd believe him to be a God. You might be given the honour of seeing him duel one day, in fact. Every few years he makes an appearance at the World Dueling Competition, gracing the winners with a bout with him. They always lose of course, but it's an honour to try."

Harry nodded, eyes gleaming with excitement. "I'll enter that competition, one day. I might even beat him."

Bellatrix opened her mouth, no doubt to scold him for such a blunt challenge, despite it's harmlessness in such a young child. She was interrupted.  
"Will you, indeed?" said the dark haired man, flashing a wry smile. "Then I'll look forward to your challenge, little boy."

Harry and Hermione looked at the man, confused for a moment, before a dreaded realization hit them.  
"Oh, Salazar." Said Hermione, awe struck and a little terrified. She bowed her head. Harry blinked several times before doing the same thing. The Dark Lord rolled his eyes in response to this, not needing the subservience of a couple of children.

"You may look at me." He ordered, and Harry raised his head to stare into the eyes of the man who owned Wizarding Europe. It was like being in a dream, or a nightmare. He had never imagined he would meet anyone as important as the Dark Lord outside of his wildest fantasies. Voldemort rose then, handing a handful of pebbles to the blonde man and gesturing for Bellatrix to rise.

"Come Bella, we must go." He turned his eyes towards the boy. "I shall watch out for you, boy. See that you keep to your word and become a fine dueler; we need more of them amongst my Death Eaters."

Harry had no words for this. To become a Death Eater was the highest prestige there was; it meant wealth, power and land. It meant that you were magically able, and your blood could never be called into question again. He swallowed heavily and nodded.  
"I will try my hardest to impress you, my Lord."

Voldemort turned to leave the kitchen. Bellatrix offered them a wave and a wolfish smile. Just as they reached the door, Voldemort paused for a moment.  
"What is your name, boy?"

"Harry Potter, my Lord."

With that, the Dark Lord nodded - the slightest hint of recognition in his eyes - and swept out of the room.


	3. The Sorting Scandal

**September 1st 1991**

Harry was quite sure he was going to be sick. He would have done anything to purge his stomach of the sickly, twisted feeling that had quite suddenly filled it; that was, if it were his stomach. It might have been his head, or his legs, or even someone else's organs. It was difficult to tell, since he felt like his body was going through a blender and being squashed at the same time. He absolutely hated port keys.  
Moments later, he landed arse first onto a thankfully soft blanket of grass. He grunted at the undignified entrance and swore under his breath; he had never been great with any kind of transport, other than broomstick. He had once thrown up all over the matron's shoes after being side-along apparrated to Diagon alley. The woman had never particularly liked him, but after that, she downright despised him.  
'Looking back on it' Harry thought with an impish grin 'I'm rather glad I threw up on her.'

Neville, who had managed to land on his feet, offered Harry an arm up, which he accepted. Harry brushed himself off quickly, being careful to pick out the stray blades of grass that were finding a home in his unruly nest of hair, and began to take in his surroundings.  
They had landed in a small meadow. It had been night when the twelve of them – all those of the age to be attending Hogwarts as first years – had left the orphanage via the quartz port keys. The area was then bathed in a luminous moonlight, and this allowed them a full view of the imposing castle ahead.  
Just in front of them was a wrought iron gate. Across it, the words "Never tickle a sleeping dragon" were emblazoned in Latin. Harry dearly wished he couldn't translate that, because it would have meant countless hours free of the dreary language teacher back at Malfoys.  
In the distance, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry loomed ominously. It was beautiful in it's own way, radiating archaic power and ancient magic. The dark stone was filled with tiny patches of light, where windows were presumably throwing out light from the candles and torches. Countless towers reached towards the heavens; inky black against the midnight blue of the night. A reflective surface spanned out from one side of the castle; the black lake, presumably, though it was hard to tell in the gloom from a distance. Nearby the unmistakable shape of thousands of trees that must make up the forbidden forest carried off into the horizon. It was an overwhelming sight.

"Did that hurt as much as it looked like it did?" asked Neville, snapping Harry out of his thoughts.

"At least twice as much." Harry responded with a sardonic smile.  
Hermione, who had been conversing with a girl she shared a room with back at the orphanage, found her way to their side.

"Are you nervous? I'm nervous. Do you think the library is as big as they say? I do hope so. I wonder if they'll let me in the restricted section. I hear they have the largest selection of books on the dark arts in History! I wonder-"

"Hermione." Harry interrupted, his tone amused. "You're doing it again."

"What again?" Hermione asked, before grimacing. "Oh dear, the thing where I chatter constantly when I'm nervous?" Harry nodded, smirking gently. "Oh no. I hope no one else realizes how nervous I am. I just don't know what to expect. I mean, do you think it will be much different to the orphanage?"

"Well, it's a lot bigger." Remarked Neville.

"And some of the people will have, you know, parents." Added Harry. This was somewhat of a sore subject, and he did wonder what it would be like to be around people who had grown up with such 'normal' upbringings that seemed so foreign to him.

"We could be in different houses, you know." Said Hermione, worrying her lower lip. "I do hope I'm with at least one person I know. I'm awkward enough as it is, without having to be alone on top of it all."

Harry began to respond to this, when the authoritative voice of the Matron rose above the chattering of the dozen children. While they had been distractedly talking, the figure of a man had appeared at the gate, and continued until he stood next to the matron as she began to speak; he was tall, with lank black hair and an almost raven-like appearance. He wore a stern expression on his face, and seemed to take an instant dislike to everyone there. Harry briefly wondered why someone would work at a school, if they so obviously disliked children.  
'Perhaps he's just having a bad day' Harry thought to himself, trying as always to remain positive.

"Alright everyone, it's time for you to join your future classmates in the castle." Began the Matron, who seemed like she had made this speech many times before. "This is Professor Snape, head of Slytherin House and Potions professor here at Hogwarts. He will accompany you all into the great hall, where your journeys as Witches and Wizards will begin. I ask that you be on your best behavior while you are at Hogwarts, as this will be your home for the next seven years. The next time we shall all see each other shall be next summer, so I wish all of you the very best of luck with your studies!"  
Without further adieu, in much her style, she disapparrated and left her wards in the care of the strange man they had just been introduced to. Harry bit back a scoff; there was a good reason that woman had been his least favourite carer at the orphanage.

"Silence." Spoke the man, Professor Snape. He didn't raise his voice particularly, but his inflection left no doubt that it was an order and not a request. "You will pair yourselves, and follow me up to the castle. I expect no dilly-dallying, wand waving or anything other than silently following me up to the castle. Anyone who disobeys this will find himself or herself serving a most unpleasant detention with myself. Is that understood?"  
There was a chorus of frightened agreement, nods, and even a whimper that Harry was pretty sure had escaped Neville who had never been too good with authority figures. This man was certainly not one to be trifled with, and Harry made a mental note to stay out of his way as much as possible. At least, until he knew what he could get away with here.  
Hermione quickly linked arms with him, marking her territory as his walking partner, and he gave her a comforting smile. Hermione always did her best to follow rules to the letter, and he had no doubt that she would be dutifully silent throughout the journey. A pity, really, since he wouldn't have minded discussing the sorting further.

They followed Professor Snape out of the little meadow, and through the iron gates. Passing under it, Harry felt a murmur of warmth settle in his chest, making it tingle pleasantly. He glanced at Hermione, but she didn't seem to have registered anything unusual, so he put it down to nerves and excitement.  
Trudging through the grounds, Harry noticed that the atmosphere inside the gates seemed a little different. Whereas the night air outside of the grounds had been rather cool, inside it appeared to be several degrees higher. It also seemed a little less humid, and there was a subtle smell of vanilla and honey in the air. Harry smiled to himself, a little amazed; weather charms were very useful, but notoriously difficult to cast. He was definitely going to be in the company of some exceptional witches and wizards here. Even he, though not quite as bookish as his dear Hermione, was looking forward to all the knowledge Hogwarts would impart and all the adventures he would have here.  
As if sensing that a child had dared to think the word 'Adventure', the hooked nose professor glanced over his shoulder and caught Harry's eyes briefly, before sneering and looking away. Harry sincerely hoped that the scary professor couldn't also read minds, or he'd never have any fun. Worryingly, he thought he saw the mans lips form a small smirk at that.

As trepidation began to fill them, it seemed like the walk was passing faster and faster and it was as if no time at all had passed when they reached the huge oak entrance doors. Harry reached down to squeeze Hermione's hand briefly; to calm her nerves and to reassure himself that there were something's in his life that hadn't changed. Neville patted a nervous Dean Thomas on the back. A girl Harry had never really spoken to called Amber briefly leaned her head against Neville, seeking comfort. As children who had grown up together, they had often fought and bickered, but in that moment they were unified by their apprehension of what the school held for them. Their comforting ministrations were brought to a halt when the Professor reached the door, and swung round to face them.  
"Momentarily, you will enter the Entrance Hall and join your year mates that have arrived by alternative methods." Harry knew this was just a slightly less cruel way of saying 'the ones who aren't orphans' "You will be alone until I return to fetch you, and I shall expect no misbehavior."  
After making sure the children felt thoroughly threatened, Snape raised his wand and made a light, flicking motion. The doors swung open, to reveal the grandeur inside.

Pushed forward by the impatience of a dozen eleven-year olds, Harry found himself standing before an imposing marble staircase. It rose to a second floor, and then seemed to split into a hallway, which lead in either direction. The floors were made out of stone, but were covered in thick green rugs, and embroidered with intricate patterns. Either side of the oak doors were two suits of armor that seemed to shift slightly, as if alive; this was a little unnerving for Harry, who had quickly given the armor some space. There must have been a hundred portraits filling the huge chamber. The portraits seemed to be talking amongst themselves mostly, but would occasionally make remarks to the children below. One particular portrait of a man with white hair and astonishingly thick, black eyebrows kept questioning the ancestry of everyone that accidently made eye contact with him.  
Although Malfoy orphanage had hardly been sparse in it's furnishings, this was far grander entirely. The descriptions of the older children had not done it justice.

Upon raking his eyes over every inch of the entrance of what was now his home, Harry found himself noticing the other children that were stood near and on the staircase. Professor Snape had largely ignored them as he'd gone immediately through another pair of double doors to the right of the hall, and it was clear that the orphans were unsure if they were supposed to make introductions or not.  
There were far more of them, these other children. There must have been at least thirty and they all appeared bored, as if they had been waiting quite a while for the orphans to make their appearance. A few of them perked up at the sight of them, staring as if they were some new novelty.  
After a tense moment, one of the boys broke ranks and approached them. He was blonde, fair and had an aristocratic look about him. His eyes were a silvery grey colour, which Harry thought he recognized from somewhere. The boy also had the distinctive golden band around the cuffs of his robes that marked him as a pureblood, as many of the other children waiting on the steps did. The only other person Harry knew who had such a band was Neville. Harry, on the other hand, had a silver band about his cuffs that marked him as a half-blood. This band had been a little more common at the orphanage, with their being two others present with the silver marking. Hermione, like the rest of the children from Malfoys, had a white band that marked her as muggle-born. This indication was seen as important in the outside world, but growing up surrounded by muggle-borns meant Harry had never really paid attention to the distinction.

"Draco Malfoy." The blonde haired boy said, upon reaching the group. He was looking directly at Neville as he said this, and outstretched a hand. Nervously, Neville took it and shook.

"Neville Longbottom." He responded. "The same Malfoys that sponsor the orphanage?"

"The very same. One of our many ventures." Draco flashed a charming smile at the boy, and his lilting, sophisticated accent rang of wealth.

"Your Father mentioned you, actually. Yesterday in fact." Harry spoke up, intrigued by the boy who seemed to be from a world so far removed from his own, and worried Neville might die of social anxiety if forced to make any more small talk. Draco looked over Harry coolly, and to his silver band suspiciously.

"And you are?" he asked, his tone clipped and superior.

"Harry. Harry Potter."

Draco paused and nodded after a moment, clearly recognizing the name, and apparently deigning to speak to him despite his blood status.  
"And what did my Father say, Potter?" he asked, offering Harry a small smile.

"He said you were one of the few around here who might actually have a chance against me at Quidditch." Harry grinned, good-naturedly.  
After a long moment, Draco grinned back, and some of his pureblood iciness seemed to melt away, much to Harry's relief.

"We'll see about that, Potter. Which team do you support?"

Before Harry could answer, the double doors of the room on the right hand side opened once again and Professor Snape reemerged, looking as grim as before. Harry took that as a good sign.

"Line up. The sorting is about to begin." He ordered. All of the children fell into line quickly; even the purebloods seemed too reluctant to keep the imposing man waiting. Once they were all in single file, Snape began to speak again. "For those of you who are not aware, there are four Hogwarts houses. Gryffindor, for the brash and brave." He seemed to say the word brave with a needless amount of sarcasm. "Ravenclaw for those who seek knowledge above all things. Hufflepuff for the loyal or more commonly, the dull. And of course, Slytherin, for the cunning and ambitious amongst you." The last he said as if he thought it a great achievement to be sorted into his house. Harry snorted. He'd already read all about the houses, and knew the merits of each. Unfortunately, the Professor seemed to hear this, and shot Harry a scathing glare. Harry gulped. "Now. Follow me." The Professor swept into the hall.

The Great Hall was. Well. Great, for lack of a better word. There were four long tables, side by side, and sitting at them were students donning their house colours. Harry largely ignored his surroundings until he was stood safely at the front with the other first years, too nervous that he might trip up and make a fool of himself to take in the décor.  
When they did reach the front, he found himself staring at a hat on a stool. He couldn't take his eyes of it, because he couldn't shake the feeling that the rumpled front was in fact a face. He was distracted however, when a familiar voice filled the hall.

"Welcome, my little firsties, to your first year in hell." Announced the quite unforgettable Headmistress Bellatrix Lestrange, who he and Hermione had met a few days before. She cackled, and a few of the first years exchanged worried glances. "No, I'm only kidding. You'll be alright. Probably." Bellatrix shrugged, eyeing the gaggle of first years as the older students chuckled behind them at the antics of their headmistress.  
Bellatrix caught the eye of Harry and Hermione, and a delighted grin crossed her face and she winked. Harry wasn't quite sure what to think of that, as she seemed to smile like one would at a particularly tasty dessert. While flattered, Harry didn't want to be eaten.  
"Anyways, we need to sort you all." She said, seeming suddenly bored as she sat back down on her throne-like chair. She was sat on a table comprising of lots of other adults, presumably their teachers. He didn't recognise any of them.  
Professor Snape reappeared from behind them, throwing Bellatrix a disdainful look. Harry held back a chuckle, thinking he could learn to like the Headmistress, if she continued to piss off the unfriendly Potions teacher.

"When I read out your name.," ordered Snape. "You will come to the front, sit on the stool, and the sorting Hat will be placed on your head. It will then sort you into a house, which you will proceed to go sit with." Without further ado, he began to read names from a list on a piece of parchment in his hand.  
"Abbot, Hannah."  
A shy looking blonde girl approached the stool, and dutifully sat down. She seemed to want to look at anything but the crowd as the hat was placed on her head, and she blushed at the attention.

"Hufflepuff" announced the hat, loudly.

Harry jumped, not quite expecting the hat to move. The Hufflepuff table, donning yellow, cheered loudly as the girl nervously left her seat, returning the hat to Professor Snape as he read the next name.  
This continued on for a while, with many people he'd never heard of being sorted and cheers greeting them. A few from the orphanage were sorted, but none he particularly was close to.  
Finally, it was Terry's turn. The hat was quick to decide that Terry was a Ravenclaw, much to Harry's surprise, given his reluctance to pick up a book.

By the time it was Hermione's turn, she'd begin to tap her feet with impatience and eagerness. Harry smiled softly, knowing she would very likely end up in Ravenclaw with Terry. He knew how eager she was to have access to the extra libraries that were rumoured to be hidden away in the Ravenclaw common room.  
She approached the stool, and Bellatrix offered the girl a mad little wave as she sat down. Hermione tried to return the smile, but it came out as more of a grimace.  
The other sorting's had taken very little time, usually less than thirty seconds by his estimations. Hermione's sorting seemed to take a good while, and he could see her lips moving softly as if she were speaking to the hat. After a few minutes, a low murmuring began and the word "hatstall" seemed to circulate. It must have been ten minutes before the conversation seemed to be drawing to a close, Harry gathered it was unusual for a sorting to take this long.

"Slytherin!" the hat announced, at last.

Hermione had turned very pale, and this time there was no applause. Harry glanced around at his year mates, to see a good portion of them looked dumbstruck and Harry could guess why; muggle-borns did not get sorted into Slytherin. There was no precedent, and Harry had thought the hat automatically didn't sort muggle-borns there.

"Come along, girl." Said Snape at last, removing the hat and directing her towards the Slytherin table. Hermione looked like a girl walking to her own funeral. The only person that seemed pleased with this turn of events was Bellatrix, who now had her feet on the high table, and was draped across her chair like a king. She was grinning as she idly toyed with a stiletto knife in her hand. Harry wondered if she knew how well she did melodrama.

Neville was the next significant name to be sorted, and he was quickly sorted into Gryffindor. Directly after him was the boy they'd met in the hall, Malfoy, who found Slytherin equally as quickly.  
"Harry Potter" Snape drawled. Harry took a deep breath, and approached the stool. Sitting down, he took in the hall as a whole for the first time. He was glad he didn't have to do much apart from sit, or he might get stage fright.

' _Interesting._ ' Came a voice inside his head. ' _Indeed, quite the confusing one. A tricky sorting all round this year._ '

'Hello?' Harry called out inside his head. 'Are you the hat?'

' _Yes, my boy, I am the hat inside your head. You're rather slow for a bright boy. They'd sort you out in Ravenclaw.'_  
  
'I quite like the look of Ravenclaw' he conceded. He did like reading after all, and knowledge was one of the many keys to power.

' _And it is power that you want. Power and infamy, it would seem. You and the girl, Hermione, have often spoken of your hope to gain notoriety for prodigious skill. That indicates the mind of a Slytherin.'_

'I'm not sure about Slytherin... I don't like Snape, but maybe Hermione needs me there.'

' _And loyalty too? A Hufflepuff trait.'_

'Please don't put me in Hufflepuff.' Harry groaned, internally.

' _Why does everyone always have such a thing against Hufflepuff?_ ' remarked the hat, tiredly.

'What?' asked Harry.

' _Sorry, I seem to be breaking the fourth wall a tad. Anyways, you're also brave. Undoubtedly and unreservedly brave. Your parents were Gryffindors, you know_.'  
Harry glowered at this, and tried to direct his unhappy expression to the hat in his mind. If you think this sounds difficult, then you have no idea.

'I have no desire to be like my parents, regardless of how brave they apparently were. They were traitors.'

' _Were they indeed? So much you have to learn, little Potter. So very young you are. I will put you where you can find the answers to the questions you have not yet begun asking. Better be…'_  
  
"Gryffindor!" the next part was said quite loudly, and the Gryffindor table burst into their usual applause. Two redheaded twins were even wolf whistling, as they had done for every Gryffindor.

Harry stood, and walked towards his table. Hermione was giving him a sad smile, and he was disappointed to note the others on her table seemed to be ignoring her presence. He felt a touch of guilt for not pressing to be put into Slytherin, but this left his mind when he reached the table and was quickly pulled into a one-armed hug by Neville.

"Thank Salazar you're in this house too. Or should I be saying Godric now?" he laughed quietly, as others were sorted.

The sorting concluded without too many more surprises. Dean joined Hufflepuff. Harry noted the twin redheads were especially loud when a boy called Ron joined the Gryffindors, and they also fell equally quiet in apparent surprise when a boy by the name of Blaise joined the table. Harry had no idea who the two were though, so didn't give it much thought. They were both purebloods, so perhaps that was something to do with it.

When the sorting was over, the hat was quickly removed. Harry thought he heard it complaining about a song, but Professor Snape simply tossed it into a sack – looking, if possible, more irritated than usual.  
The Headmistress seemed bored of official speeches – if one could call anything Bellatrix did officious – and merely waved her wand lazily. With that, plates and plates of food appeared and talking erupted in earnest as everyone in the hall dug into their respective feasts.

"My name's Ron, by the way. Ron Weasley." Began the redheaded first year, pausing in his grabbing of food to shake the hands of Neville, Harry and Blaise. Blaise seemed rather reluctant to shake the hands of the boy, but that might have been because his hands were coated in grease from the chicken wings he'd just been devouring.

"Harry Potter."

"Neville Longbottom."

"Zabini." The boy didn't give his first name, though they obviously knew what it was already. Harry chose not to remark on that, but Ron rose an eyebrow in irritated dismay.

"So what are you looking forward to the most? I can't wait for Halloween! My brothers say Hogwarts throw the best Halloween parties in the world."  
Blaise offered an acidic smile at this, but didn't comment.

"I'm looking forward to care of magical creatures." Said Neville. "I've always liked weird creatures. I want to be a dragon rider one day."  
Ron nodded, as if giving his approval of this ambition.

"I just can't wait to play Quidditch with real equipment. The stuff at the orphanage tended to get shabby pretty quickly." said Harry.

Ron smiled, shoveling some mashed potatoes into his mouth. The topics continued to flow quite easily between the boys, with the exception of Zabini who seemed keen to just listen. There were a few girls who'd been sorted into their house, and three other boys that seemed to know each other and were talking exclusively between themselves. Neville and Harry became fast friends with Ron, and even Blaise had an interesting anecdote to add now and then, even if reluctantly.

By the time the feast came to a close - with Bellatrix telling them to go play in the forbidden forest if they wanted because she so enjoyed the dying screams of stupid children – they had all agreed that they would share a dormitory. Admittedly, Zabini had very little say in the matter, and his only other choice were the gossiping trio of boys behind them.  
Harry fell asleep that night in the warmth and comfort of Gryffindor tower feeling far more at ease than he had the night before. Even if Neville snored, and Blaise snarked and Ron didn't chew his food properly, he knew he could learn to like his housemates.

His last thoughts before he fell asleep that first night, were that he really hoped Hermione would be alright in Slytherin without him.

 


	4. An Explosive Start

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I haven't posted in a little while! I mostly use ff, but I'm going to start posting both here and there simultaneously.

**September 2nd 1991**

The next day was a Monday, and for once, this didn't cause Harry too much dismay. Ordinarily Monday would have meant maths, Latin, history and no opportunities for flying at all. At Hogwarts however, it meant Harry was going to actually learn magic. Even though he was a night owl by nature and rarely rose before nine (eleven if he could help it), he found himself up and showering at six thirty, before the other boys had even stirred.  
The shower itself had been wonderful, the heat easing some of the tension Harry hadn't realised he'd been holding on to. He'd taken his time to make sure he looked his best, and even made an attempt at taming his unruly hair with a comb. By the time he left the room – an en suite attached to their dormitory – the other boys had woken and begun to get dressed and Zabini was waiting outside the door.  
"You're like a girl. I've been waiting for twenty minutes!" He spat, giving Harry a scathing look before storming into the room and shutting the door behind him. Harry chuckled, guessing Zabini was not a morning person.

Harry carefully picked out his clothes and changed, feeling no shyness in front of the other boys as he stripped off his pajamas and donned his school clothes. Harry had grown up with very little privacy, and was quite used to it. Neville was in the same position, and Ron didn't appear to mind either. Harry vaguely remembered Ron mentioning that he had a big family. Blaise, however, dressed in the bathroom and sneered when he emerged to find them in varying states of undress.

"Do you orphans have no sense of propriety?" demanded Blaise, Harry now noticed a slight Italian accent that he hadn't before. "I'd at least expect better from you Weasley, though I don't know why."

"Leave off, Zabini!" retorted Ron. "What's got your knickers in a twist? Upset you missed out on Slytherin?"  
Zabini glared at him for a moment, before sighing dramatically and sweeping out of the room.

"What's up with him, anyways? He seems a bit moody. Do you know him, Ron?" asked Harry, bemused.  
"Oh yeah, well we all do really. Pure bloods I mean. He's just upset because most of his mates are in Slytherin and he's here."

"Is Slytherin better then? I thought they were all the same?"

"Well… Officially they are." Ron agreed. "And we have the better Quidditch team. But with the Dark Lord and the Head Mistress being from Slytherin, rumor has it they get better treatment. Individual bedrooms instead of dormitories, their own libraries, better parties. I don't know if that's true though, since all my family are Gryffindors."  
Harry nodded, a little touch of jealousy flaring at the Slytherins getting better treatment. 'At least' he thought 'Hermione is getting something out of being sorted there.'

"It's quite unusual as well, a whole family being in one house. Didn't used to be, but that was when the sorting was different." Ron had finished getting ready, and so had Neville and Harry so they continued their conversation as they began to make their way out of the towers and towards the great hall.

"Different?" Harry questioned.

"Well, apparently when my Dad was young, most of the time Slytherin was just for pure bloods who were good at dark magic – Gryffindor for people who were good at light magic – Ravenclaw for anyone who liked books and Hufflepuff for those that didn't fit anywhere else." They reached the common room, and walked straight through the portrait hole. "But that's not how it was meant to be, see? So when the Dark Lord took over, and Professor Lestrange became Headmistress, they did something to the hat to renew it's magic. It had gotten old, and the enchantments worn off. Anyways, now the sorting is meant to be a lot truer; Slytherin for if you're ambitious and cunning, and Gryffindor if you're brave and daring. Only actually clever people can get into Ravenclaw, and Hufflepuff for people that are loyal – or weirdly good at finding things. And that means all the death eater kids that want to go to Slytherin only get in some of the time."

"Hence Blaise being pissed off." Harry finished, to which Ron agreed.

"It's good for us though." Ron continued. "Mum says she thought Gryffindors would be treated like dirt under… in the new world. But our Lord needs brave people, doesn't he? And some of our lot are good at dark magic, or death eaters kids, or also really intelligent like a Ravenclaw. It means there's not as much… I dunno the word for it."

"Prejudice? Discrimination?" Harry guessed.

"Yeah. Blimey, maybe you should have been in Ravenclaw." Ron bumped shoulders with Harry playfully, as they reached the great hall.

"So why was everyone so shocked when Hermione was sorted into Slytherin?" asked Neville, pushing the doors open.

"You know the muggle-born that went to Slytherin?" Ron let out a low whistle. "Well, put it this way; things have changed, but they haven't changed that much! I mean, they get more half-bloods than they used to, but a muggle-born witch in Slytherins house? Good luck to her!"  
Harry and Neville exchanged concerned looks as they sat down at the table for breakfast. Glancing over, Harry saw that Hermione was as of yet, nowhere in sight.

* * *

Half an hour later, Harry had consumed an indecent amount of toast. Ron and Neville had sat back to animatedly discuss a new rock band called "The Goblins" that was entirely made up of vampires, when Blaise reappeared.

"Where've you been?" asked Ron, half accusingly.

"Not that it is any of your business, but I was talking with Draco Malfoy. It does me good to have some civilized conversation." He responded, irritated. Ron promptly stuck out his tongue, and Harry laughed.  
Before any further insults could be traded, a man they had met very briefly last night as their head of house, began to make his way down the table handing out sheets of parchment.  
"Our schedules, I reckon." Said Ron, noticing Harry's curious look.

"About time." Remarked Blaise. "We have our first class in half an hour, and don't even know what it is yet. They'd better not expect us to have our books today."

"Longbottom." Came the voice of the Professor, handing Neville a blank piece of paper. "Weasley" he handed Ron the same, before fixing him with a look.

"How many more of you lot are there? I swear I've had more Weasleys through my house than anyone should be made to suffer."

"There's three more of us, Professor Crouch." Ron responded, a little nervously. "All girls."

"Well, as long as none of them are twins, I suppose." Responded the professor, smiling good-naturedly. "I don't know if I could deal with another pair of Weasley twins."

"Neither does my Mum, sir." Said Ron, smiling balefully.

"Anyways, here you go. Zabini, Potter. Just tap them with your wands and say your name, and there should be a map and a schedule. You'll all have the same until after yuletide, when you'll be moved into classes according to ability instead of house."  
The Professor walked away, and Harry eagerly tapped the parchment.

"We've got double transfiguration first..." remarked Blaise, thoughtfully. "With the Hufflepuffs."

"Then Dark Arts with –" Harry's eyebrows rose. "Professor Lestrange teaches a class?"

"Of course." said Blaise, smirking. "And she's wicked good at the Dark Arts."

"I know." Harry replied, nodding. "I can't wait, actually. Oh, and we share that class with the Slytherins. That should be interesting."  
They read through the rest of their schedules, idly noting that Professor Crouch – their head of house – taught Light arts. Other than that, Harry didn't recognize any of the teachers, so didn't give the schedule much thought.

A little while later, after Ron had stuffed another plate full of toast and jam down his throat, and Blaise had enjoyed another rant about the lack of table manners in Gryffindor house, they all stood up too leave. They had just reached the oak double doors, when the bushy-haired figure of Harry's best friend tumbled into the hall looking flustered. All four of them stopped, and Hermione rushed into his arms in a flurry of excitement.

"Harry, you should see the library here! It's incredible." she began, flashing him a wildly excited grin.

"Why am I not surprised that's the first thing you want to talk about?" responded Harry, smiling indulgently at his would be sister. The sight of Hermione not looking too stricken at being forced into such a hostile house gave him a great sense of relief, and he released her, putting his hands on her shoulders. Ron and Neville were idly chatting about the castle, waiting for him to finish his conversation; Blaise was looking over Hermione curiously, no doubt wondering about the first muggle-borns Slytherin.  
"How are they treating you in your house?" Harry asked in a low voice, while Blaise adopted a carefully blasé look, as if he weren't listening.

Hermione shrugged, a slightly sad expression crossing her features. "It's not as bad as I thought it would be. I think Professor Snape intervened on my behalf, to prevent them picking on me…" she blushed at this. "They've mostly just ignored me. They haven't been exactly welcoming, but they haven't been cruel other than the odd whispered comment as I walk by."  
Harry frowned at this, hating that anyone would pick on his closest friend, even if subtly.

"They'll get used to you." He said, reassuringly. "And even if they don't, who cares? You have us, and you can show them up with how ridiculously clever you are." He smiled, and Hermione once again blushed.

"Thanks, Harry. Listen, I want to grab some food before my first class, but we'll see each other later?" she hugged him quickly again.

"Definitely. We have Dark Arts together later, so I'll see you there. Bye Hermione."

Hermione walked away, looking a little less emotional at the reassurances of her friend, and Harry let a weight rise from his shoulders as he and his housemates slowly meandered to their first lesson.

* * *

Transfiguration proved to be a bore, as the lady that taught it 'Professor McGonagall' just lectured them about the importance of safety, and the uses of transfiguration in Wizarding society. She was an older woman, with a downtrodden feel about her, but it was interesting when she turned herself into a cat when explaining the use of animagi. They didn't actually perform any magic in that first lesson, and Harry tried not to feel disappointment.

Afterwards, they had a short break. Ron and Neville split off from the rest of them, claiming they wanted to grab a snack before their next lesson. Blaise had rolled his eyes at this, and he and Harry had begun to walk in the general direction of the dark arts classroom.  
Before long, they ran into a group of Slytherins that were walking in the same direction, and Blaise struck up a conversation with them.

"Nott, Malfoy, Crabbe." Began Blaise, formerly. "How are you?"

"Quite well, Zabini. How are your new arrangements suiting you?" responded Malfoy, smirking.

Zabini glowered. "Well enough, though not with the privacy I have grown to expect…" he drawled.

Malfoy chuckled. "Well, I'm sure you'll face that particular inconvenience…bravely." Nott and Crabbe stifled a laugh at this, enjoying Malfoys jibe at Blaise's House.

Zabini rolled his eyes. As much as he disliked his new House, he seemed quite used to this teasing. Harry imagined the four must know each other quite well, and wondered at their formality.  
Malfoys eyes met Harry's, and his cold smirk turned into a light smile.  
"Potter, isn't it? We met before the sorting."

"Yeah." Harry smiled, good-naturedly. He knew enough about people like Draco to know that they could be perfectly pleasant, as long as they didn't see you as much of a threat. "Did you enjoy your first class, Malfoy? Blaise and I just had Transfiguration."

Although he adopted their air of stuffiness, he used Blaise's first name pointedly. Harry wasn't about to act like some proper old man, just because these rich kids wanted to be superior. Draco raised an eyebrow.  
"It was rather dull, actually." He commented. "We had Herbology. I've never been fond of the subject."

"Nor have I." agreed Harry, as they stopped outside the door of the dark arts classroom. A few others had appeared then, including Ron and Neville, a handful of Slytherins and Hermione. The other Slytherins distanced themselves from her, and Harry defensively slung a hand around her shoulder.

"Harry." She smiled. "Did you like your first lesson? We had Herbology. It was fascinating. Are you looking forward to Dark Arts? I've heard Professor Lestrange is quite the remarkable teacher."

"Calm, Mione." Harry laughed. "You'll suffocate if you get anymore excited."  
She batted him playfully, just as the door to the classroom swung open.

Standing in a deep purple, crushed velvet cloak that went down to her ankles, a black corset and skirt, and knee high leather boots, the imposing figure of the Head Mistress stood above the now silent students with a wicked grin on her face.

"Welcome, Kiddies." she smirked, pushing the door open wide. "Get inside, and let's see if any of you are worth your magic!" she said this in a cheerily threatening manner, and Harry and Hermione exchanged worried glances. As a unit, the children shuffled into the classroom. Harry noted that it was a huge room – more like a hall than a room really. Against one side were desks and chairs, and against the other side was a kind of small arena, with dummies on either side. There was a glowing blue line around this part of the room, and Harry recognized it as the same kind of warding spells they had around the domes of the International Dueling Competition.  
"This is where you're either going to learn to be a Dark Witch or Wizard –" began Lestrange, seriously. "Or you're going to learn to be a masochist. Either way suits me just fine." She smirked, but only Harry and Hermione laughed and even they seemed surprised that they dare. Harry realised they probably didn't know what the word meant, and thought that probably for the best.  
"Most of you won't be good at this subject." She sighed as she said this. "But the Dark Lord requires at least a certain level of ability from all of you, as we embark to expand our empire. However, for those of you that show promise, there is much to be gained here at Hogwarts." Harry felt an air of giddiness at this, and tried to control his expression.

"Alright!" she dropped the serious look, and stepped over the magical barrier. "Enough talk, I'll leave that to the boring teachers. I want to see what you lot are made of, so when I say your name, you'll step into here and perform a spell at this dummy." She gestured to the dummy behind her. "Any spell is fine, but try to make it a bit dark, or I might get bored."

"But…" began Ron, "You haven't taught us anything yet, Professor.."

Lestrange gave him a perplexed look, and then scoffed. "You're a wizard, aren't you? You've had your wand for a few weeks, yes? And your books?" Ron nodded, looking quite terrified. "Good. Then you can surely show me a spell."

Without needing her wand, Lestrange snapped her fingers, and a list appeared in her hands.  
"Lola Gaskin." Announced Lestrange. A mousy haired half blood girl that Harry hadn't seen before stepped into the ring nervously. Lestrange already looked bored, as the girl tentatively lifted her wand and cast a weak – albeit successful – bat bogey hex. It was strange to see bats shooting out of the non-existent nose of the mannequin.

"Fine. Next up – Ron Weasley."  
If Gaskin had been bad, then Ron was far worse. He stalled for a good minute, before eventually attempting a spell that Harry was pretty sure wasn't real. When nothing happened, Lestrange sighed impatiently, and pointed her wand at the red-head.

" _Lashius._ " She said, calmly. Ron jumped and clutched his upper thighs, feeling the effect of the spell Harry knew mimicked the feeling of a strap against the skin. Blaise stifled a laugh, for the first time since Harry had met him "Come to my classroom prepared, Weasley."  
Ron nodded miserably and rejoined the group, sniffing every now and then. One by one, they were called. Draco's was fairly impressive, earning a nod from the Professor, but they were mostly unremarkable. When Hermione's name was called, Lestrange looked bored half to death.

Harry watched with nervous pride as Hermione entered the ring, and nodded calmly towards Lestrange. She looked very young, with her long wild hair and big brown eyes. There was a sense of disinterest about them, as everyone but Harry seemed to discount her. Fortunately, Harry knew Hermione well enough to predict what was about to happen. She took a deep breath and lifted her wand.

_"Extasius._ " Hermione said calmly, with a wide arch of her wand. The dummy before her exploded from the abdomen, littering the floor with rubber intestines. There was a susurrus about the room, and Harry grinned. This was by far the most destructive spell that had been used, and even Lestrange seemed to be stunned for a moment. If he wasn't mistaken, that was a spell taken from the 5th year curriculum.

"That, my dear…" began Lestrange. "Was excellently done! I knew you and I were going to have fun together. Such a complex spell for a beginner." She'd approached Hermione, and literally ruffled her hair as she cooed over her, much to the surprise of the onlookers. Hermione was flushing with pride, and Lestrange promised to speak to her afterwards.  
Harry was barely over his elation for his friend when it was his turn. His joy turned to nerves, as he entered the ring. He had practiced a few spells since he got his wand, but not many and never in front of anyone. He'd been having a few issues with the castings, and he wasn't eager to show off as of yet.  
Deciding he wanted to make at least some impression on the Head Mistress, he chose a second year spell that was fairly simple to cast but was undoubtedly dark in its nature. He'd been reading about it the night before, and apparently it was one of the retinue of spells that depends on the intent of the caster.  
He took a good minute once inside the ring to gather his thoughts. Hermione had taught him this trick from an old book she'd found a year or so ago; a kind of meditation where one could locate the source of their magic and draw from it.  
Taking a deep breath, he pointed his wand at the dummy and cast.

" _Expulso!"_

And the world went black.


	5. The Locket

**September 3rd 1991**

"Harry...?" came a voice in the oblivion. "Harry, can you hear me?"  
It was a female voice, he registered blearily, and he recognized it.

"Mr. Potter, are you awake?" came another voice, male this time.

Harry just wanted to sleep. Was that such a big thing to ask? He let out a low groan, registering that his body felt sore and tingly. He caught the scent of the cool air around him, noting it had the crisp, clinical smell he'd known at St. Mungo's. He'd spent a lot of time there as a child, being a rambunctious kid that was forever breaking limbs and doing accidental magic. He'd once been so determined to win a game of 'hide and find' that he'd randomly apparrated into a tree, only to immediately fall out of it. Yes, the matron had gotten very sick of taking him to the hospital. The hospital. A hospital?  
His eyes snapped open in surprise, as the last clouds of unconsciousness slipped away as he became aware of the figures standing over the bed he'd ended up in. He seemed to be in the hospital wing.

"Harry!" Hermione flung her arms around him excitedly, her eyes damp. "Harry, I've been so worried."  
Harry patted her back reassuringly, even through his confusion at the situation. His head of house, Professor Crouch, was stood at the other side of the bed leaning against a curtain rail.

"Well finally." He said, flashing him a startling smile. "The Dark Lord would have had our heads if we'd lost a student on the first day. It's usually at least the fifth." He winked, and Harry smiled despite himself. Hermione threw the teacher a scathing look, and Harry was amused by her ability as an eleven year old to scold a fully-grown man and Professor.

"What happened?" he asked finally, taking the glass of water Hermione was offering him and taking a sip. It tasted sweet.

"Well." Began the Professor. "For one thing, you gave yourself a pretty nasty concussion."  
Harry groaned. He knew a few things about concussions, and enough to know he'd have a headache for the next week. Strangely though, he didn't currently feel any pain.

"But how? The last thing I remember is…" he reached back in his mind, biting his lip to recall the details. "Dark arts. I cast… Expulso? Oh Morgana, what did I do?"

"It was pretty incredible really." Began Hermione, nervously. "I mean, you blew up half the classroom."

"The classroom?" he asked, startled. "But the wards around it?"

"-were not set up for the amount of magical power you tossed at it." Finished Professor Crouch, seriously. "Which is interesting to say the least."

"I don't understand." Harry replied, his head still hazy.

"When you cast the spell-" Hermione said, slowly. "You used an insane amount of power. More than anyone our age has any right to, really. In fact, Professor Lestrange said that many death eaters couldn't have blown that ring out easily. Since it blew out the ring, it took the wall behind it out too. It all happened very quickly, but the Head Mistress managed to get a shield charm around everyone but you – you were too close. It was actually the stone of the wall that knocked you out; you were showered with it."

"Oh." Responded Harry dumbly, entirely unsure of what to say. It was true that he'd always known he had a decent amount of magical potential, given the signs from his prepubescent magic, but he'd not imagined himself to be so unusually powerful. Especially not compared to all the pure bloods here at Hogwarts.

"Oh indeed." Responded Crouch, nodding. "We're going to have to run some tests, and take some precautionary measures to ensure it doesn't happen again. But all in all, I'd be happy Mr. Potter. You're a very powerful Wizard."  
Harry nodded his thanks, feeling too surprised by this turn in events to do much else. Professor Crouch had stayed a little longer, instructed him on the medicine he'd need to take and informed Harry of the homework that had been assigned in the two days that he'd been out. He also told him that he wouldn't be expected back in class until tomorrow. He'd then bid him goodbye, but not before giving him an intense look that made Harry feel uncomfortable.

Hermione stayed with him for the next couple of hours, chattering away about their classes and the teachers. She was a big fan of Professor Lestrange and Crouch, and Professor Black who taught charms. Actually, Hermione seemed quite fond of all her teachers, even Professor Snape who she described as 'strict but fair'. Eventually, she had to leave for a class and Harry was left alone to the ministrations of the mediwitch.  
Eventually, he was released from the Hospital wing with stern orders to take it easy. He figured he'd get something to eat since it was almost dinner, and quickly went back to his dormitory to change.  
By the time he had taken a quick shower, dressed, and attempted to comb his wild hair, he was starving. Really starving. He tucked his wand into his pocket, and gave the empty room a last glance before jogging down the stairs and out of the portrait hole.

When he entered the great hall, he'd made a beeline for his house table. He could see Ron and Neville already with a plateful of food, and was eager to fill his stomach. He didn't get far, however, before his way was blocked by a familiar blonde.

"Potter." Malfoy began formally, as ever. "Zabini is sitting with us today, and we'd like to extend an invitation to yourself."  
Harry was a little taken aback by this. It seemed so silly and formal, he was 'invited to sit' with them, as if they thought themselves to be royalty? He did recognize that Malfoy was attempting to be polite though. He sighed lightly, and then forced a smile.

"Sure. I'm starving though, so I hope there's enough pheasant and caviar to go around."  
Draco smirked, looking at him askance as they walked to the Slytherin table. He seemed to appreciate Harry's sarcasm. Harry was relieved the boy could at least take a joke at his expense.  
He quickly found himself seated with Malfoy, Zabini, Theodore Nott and Vincent Crabbe. There was also a girl present, a Ravenclaw that he hadn't met before. She was a beautiful girl, with blonde hair and an aristocratic charm.

"Daphne Greengrass." She said, smiling prettily at him and giving him a little wave. He was glad to see someone on this table didn't have a stick up their arse.

"Harry Potter." He nodded at her, giving her a small smile in return. He noticed Hermione was sat further up the table, reading a book as she ate.

"So Potter. I take it that you've recovered from your mishap in Dark Arts?" began Zabini neutrally.

"Well, apart from the fact I haven't eaten in two days." Harry was already beginning to put food on his plate, and the rest of the boys were following suit – if a little more gracefully.

"Was certainly a show you put on, Potter." Said Malfoy. "Did you know that it was going to happen?"

"Yes, Malfoy. I intentionally took a brick to the head, and knocked myself out for two days. Didn't fancy potions." Harry rolled his eyes.

"It was surprising. We didn't think a half blood could be as powerful as that." Nott continued, ignoring the sarcasm.

"Now now." Corrected Malfoy. "Let's not forget that he's also a Potter; they were a strong pureblood line, even if they were on the wrong side."

Harry felt his hackles rise, but ignored the provocation. His parents had been on the wrong side of the war, and he hadn't known them.  
"It's nothing to do with that." Harry retorted, keeping his temper. "Didn't you read the Welbecks study that was released last year? There's no proven correlation between blood status and intelligence or magical ability."

"Corre-what?" asked Crabbe.

"Correlation. Link."

Draco nodded thoughtfully. "I did. I even know that it may lead to some real change one day, but we'll see about that. Mudbloods could still become a threat. Their loyalties are still divided."

"Divided loyalty?" Harry questioned, bemused. "Have you met Hermione?"

Malfoy glanced towards the girl that was so engrossed in her reading further down the table. "Decidedly not." Retorted Malfoy.

"Well, that girl is my best friend, and she'll undoubtedly be the best witch Hogwarts has seen in a long time. There is no one more loyal to the magical world than her; being a witch was her birthright."  
Reluctantly, Malfoy gave Hermione another considering look, before breaking his gaze away.

"We'll see, Potter. If she's everything you seem to think she is, then Slytherin will have no choice but to welcome her. I just hope she doesn't prove to be a disappointment."

"She won't be." Harry responded, his tone more intense than he realised. He was always filled with this sort of fervor when he defended his friends, especially Hermione.

Draco kept eye contact with Harry for a long moment, before breaking it with a soft smile.  
"Well then. If Slytherin must have a mudblood, then we should at least have the best one."

Dinner continued in much the same fashion after that. The group chatted idly about everything from Quidditch to lessons to music, and Harry found that he and Blaise had more in common than he'd anticipated. They both supported Tutshill Tornadoes – Nott had scoffed at this, muttering 'glory supporters' in a whisper they were obviously meant to hear – and they both were big fans of the band 'Dread Dragon'. Malfoy had been completely bemused by this, as it was seen as quite alternative, and he apparently hadn't known this about Blaise. He'd even tried poking fun about it until the delightful Daphne chimed in, pointing out the time Draco had been staying at her manor and had been caught listening to Celestina Warbeck. Blaise downright broke down in laughter at this, and Harry could see himself liking the boy more when he loosened up.  
Harry dug into the food more eagerly than he ever had, having not eaten for two days. He piled his plate high with mashed potatoes, sausages, and delicious onion gravy. Afterwards, when the dinner had been magically removed, and replaced with the desserts, he'd ate his weight in vanilla cheesecake.

"I'm beginning to think the food is actually better over here." He said when he was quite sure he'd eaten enough to burst.

"Wouldn't surprise me." Replied Malfoy, taking a drink of Pumpkin juice.

"I'd be surprised if it weren't..." Blaise muttered, darkly.

"Is it true then, about Slytherin getting better treatment?" Harry enquired, innocently.

"Perhaps." Shrugged Malfoy. "I mean, I think our rooms are bigger, but then the dungeons are larger so that's not unreasonable. As for the food, it might just be because you're clearly starving."

Harry nodded, nonplussed. Blaise looked affronted at this, since he was clearly still offended to be a Gryffindor.  
Talk eventually turned, once again, to what had happened in Dark Arts on Monday. It was clear that this was the real motivation behind him being asked to sit with them; Harry might not be a Slytherin, but he wasn't blind to their agenda.

"You must have known." Insisted Nott, while Crabbe nodded. Crabbe seemed more suspicious of Harry than the others, and didn't speak much.

"If I'd have known, I wouldn't have done it!" insisted Harry.

"So you're saying that you'd never cast a spell before that moment?" Daphne questioned, clearly dubious.

"Of course I'd cast a few spells before, but not that spell. I mean, the others had been a bit overpowered. Like, I tried to cast Wingardium Leviosa on my pillow and ended up lifting the whole bed…" he grimaced at the memory of one of the caretakers at the orphanage coming in to find his bed against the ceiling. "But nothing so destructive. I'd never cast that particular spell before."

The group nodded, seeming to believe his explanation at last.  
"I wonder what they're going to do to you." Said Blaise, thoughtfully.

"Do to me?" Harry asked, a creeping sense of worry coming over him. What could they do to him? It wasn't like he had done it on purpose!

Blaise shook his head at his expression. "I don't mean as in a punishment. No teacher here would punish you for being powerful, especially not Lestrange."

"The only thing Aunt Bella minds is mediocrity, and your display was anything but boring." Chimed Draco, and Harry made a mental note that the two of them were related. That was strange, seeing as the demure, sophisticated young blonde wasn't anything like his wild haired, eccentric Aunt.

"I just mean," continued Blaise "It isn't as if they can let you carry on blowing up classrooms and levitating large pieces of furniture. They're going to have to put a lid on it somehow. No idea how though, I haven't heard of people accidently overpowering before."

"I have." Malfoy added. The group turned to look at him curiously, but Malfoy took his time having a long sip of his pumpkin juice before continuing. "Aunt Bella. My Mother says that Bella was forever blowing up furniture, and setting fire to the manor when they were growing up."

Harry raised his eyebrows, surprised. Bellatrix had been like this? He could only hope that meant he could be as powerful as she was one day, although that seemed rather too ambitious at this early stage.  
This quickly turned into a conversation about the International Dueling competition, and being young boys, they were eager to say how they were all planning on entering and winning as soon as they were seventeen. Even Daphne, who seemed rather more mature than her male counterparts, reminded all of them that she would most certainly beat all of them in a duel.

By the time they had to leave for their common rooms, Harry felt surprisingly companionable with the Slytherins. Even Draco had a certain stuffy charm, once you looked past the childish snobbery. He also felt he knew Blaise better, and liked the boy more having seen him relaxed around people he was obviously comfortable with.  
The rest of the night passed comfortably. Blaise had reluctantly agreed to a game of chess with Ron in the common room, Neville had gone straight up to bed, and Harry had curled up in the window seat that looked over the black lake with a book. He was reading "History of the Light Arts", a book Professor Crouch had recommended while he was in the Hospital Wing. He was soon engrossed in tales about Merlin, the original light lord, and the night slipped away. He didn't even notice it was time to go to bed until Blaise shook him out of his reverie.

"Come along, bookworm." Blaise said, his usually icy tone a little warmer than it had been in the days previous. "You have potions first thing, and Snape will gut you if you oversleep."

Harry, daunted by the idea of angering the bat like Professor, went right to bed.

* * *

**September 4th 1991**

The next morning, Harry found himself outside the Potions class with his friends (he'd just about convinced himself that Blaise could be considered a friend, although he wasn't going to broach the subject with Blaise himself for a long while). They were sharing this lesson with the Ravenclaws, and Daphne had come over to talk to them. She even gave Harry a quick run down of the warnings the Professor had given them about misbehaving, foolish wand waving, and something about brewing death that she couldn't quite recall but definitely remembered was a little creepy.  
By the time the Professor arrived and swooped into the classroom, barking at them to follow, Harry was cowed into behaving as well as he possibly could.  
The potions classroom consisted of many two person desks, where small cauldrons had been placed above unlit burners. There was a cacophony of scraping chairs and rustling paper as the class settled into their assigned seats, and Harry found himself sitting alone. It seemed there were an odd number of people in the class, and Harry had not been present when the seating plan had been set. His anxiety only grew at this, since he would surely be expected to do double the work.  
The Professor wasted no time in writing the name of the potion they would be making today, and the page number in their potions book to turn to. Not daring to complain about his lack of partner, he set to work finding the potion and then collecting the ingredients. Half an hour past without event, and he was pleased to see his potion at least somewhat matched the colour that was stated in the book.  
Around this time, Professor Snape, who had been making his rounds about the classroom reached his desk.

"Mr Potter." he said stiffly, peering into the cauldron impassively. "This isn't as terrible as I expected, but the shade shows you have stirred it once too many times counter clock-wise."

"I'm sorry, sir." Harry responded, sincerely. He'd always found it difficult to concentrate for long periods of time, and the potion required it to be stirred counter clock-wise 107 times.

"Just pay closer attention next time, Mr Potter." He responded, sternly. "I trust you were informed of the essay due tomorrow?"

"Yes, sir." Responded Harry, offering a tentative smile. Perhaps he'd misjudged the man? He wasn't friendly by any means, but he wasn't being the beast he expected.

Professor Snape raised an eyebrow at this. "Well you can add an extra five inches on the importance of due attention in potion making."  
The Professor walked away, and Harry glared at his back. 'I take it back, he is a snarky old bat.'

Harry completed his potion in the hour and it was deemed acceptable by Snape. Harry was quite proud of this, seeing as Neville's potion had exploded and a couple of Ravenclaw girls' potion had been vanished in disgust by the Professor. He was therefore in quite a good mood as he got to his next lesson. Light Arts with his Head of House, Professor Crouch.

They piled into the classroom; they shared this class with the Hufflepuffs, and so he and Blaise sat together, not having many close friends in that house.  
Professor Crouch stood at the front of the classroom, leaning casually against a black board and observing his class. When everyone had finally sat down, he began to speak.

"Welcome back, firsties, to Light Arts 101." He grinned.

Harry thought, and had noticed before, that there was a glimmer of the same madness in Crouch that there was in Lestrange. It wasn't as potent, or as chilling, but it was definitely there. He gave off the impression that at some point in his life, he'd cracked.  
Crouch spent the next part of the lesson going over everything that they were going to learn that term. He also gave an extensive lecture about the usefulness of light arts in battle, and warned that although dark arts was a potent tool – it was a fool that didn't recognise light arts as just as vital.

"Of course, that being said, most of you will probably find yourself performing better in one or the other. Although little can be said for definite about the nature of the magical core, we can be almost certain that it has some intrinsic preference for one type of magic or the other. Of course, a powerful witch or wizard will be able to perform either type at an advanced level, but will almost always be more naturally able in one."  
Although the rest of the class seemed bored at this speech, Harry was paying rapt attention. He'd always found magical theory interesting.  
When finally the class ended, he was stopped by Professor Crouch.

"Harry, the Head Mistress wants to see you in her office. Do you know where to find it?"  
Harry nodded, giving the Professor a perplexed look.

"You'll see when you get there." He said, reassuringly. Harry nodded and set off towards the office. When he arrived, some ten minutes later, he came across a stone gargoyle. He knew from an earlier conversation with Ron that this was the entrance to the office.

"Erm. Excuse me, the Head Mistress asked to see me." He said to the Gargoyle. The Gargoyles stone head lifted, giving him a once over.

"I see. And you are?"

"Harry Potter."

The Gargoyle nodded, and then began to shift. It revealed a stone spiral staircase, which he began to ascend as it twisted. He must have climbed two flights by the time he reached the entrance to the office. As he went inside, he found Professor Lestrange sitting on top of her large oak desk in deep conversation with a portrait of a dark haired gentleman.

"Professor? You asked for me?" Harry began, tentatively.

"Oh Harry!" responded Lestrange, giddily. "How are you? Entertaining start to the year."

"That's one word for it…" Harry grumbled, rubbing at his still sore neck.

Professor Lestrange pouted. "Oh Harry, love. Sorry I couldn't shield you in time, but then it was rather unexpected."  
He shrugged, not having blamed her or expected an apology.

"Come sit." She kicked a chair out from beneath the desk she was sitting on, and Harry sat upon it. It was strangely nerve-wracking having the Head Mistress sat above him on the desk like this, but he dismissed that thought as irrational. She could kill him wherever she sat, if the desire came upon her.

"I'm quite excited about this years batch." Bellatrix mused, running her wand through her hair and twisting it around her curls. "My nephew is performing well. That's his Black blood; Lucius is many things, but a dueler isn't one of them."  
Harry nodded, unsure of what to say to that. The Head Mistress seemed to be talking to herself more than him anyway.  
"And you and the mudblood were such a surprise. You being as powerful as that, and the girl being so talented. Reminds me of myself at her age. I never though I'd say that about a mudblood." Bellatrix laughed. "I'm glad I didn't murder you, Harry."

"I... Thank you?" Harry responded, incredibly confused.  
Bellatrix seemed to come back to herself then, shaking herself from her thoughts.

"Anyway, as to the reason you're here." She leaned back over the desk, and reached into her top drawer. Pulling out what appeared to be a locket, she sat back up. Harry blushed as he saw a little too much of her stockings as she leaned over, but the woman appeared not to notice. "This is a talisman. Old fashioned name really, but it's function is to prevent anything like what happened Monday happening again." Unceremoniously, she popped it over his head. The chain was silver and the locket was gold with a green 'S' set into it in emeralds. He turned it over in his hands curiously, noting it felt warm to his touch. "Essentially, it will block most of your magic."

Harry looked up, alarmed, and she held a calming hand out and smiled.

"Don't worry, it's only while you're wearing and you'll only have to keep it on until you're grown. Your body is too small, and your mind too fragile to hold that kind of power as of yet. However, I warn you; this locket will serve to train you also. When it detects that you're overpowering a spell, it will punish you with pain."  
Harry gawked, wanting to refuse to wear the thing, but paused when he noticed the steely look in the eyes of the Head Mistress and then deflated.  
"Trust me." She said, unusually soothing for the eccentric woman. "It will be better in the long run, and it will help stop far worse accidents in the future. I, myself, wore this locket."  
Harry looked up at her, surprised. He remembered that Draco had mentioned her having similar issues at his age.

"They used this in the old world, then?" he asked, curiously. He got the distinctive feeling that there was something dark about the locket.

Bellatrix cackled, shaking her head. "This? Do you think old Dumbeldore gave this to me?"

Harry stared, confused. "Dumbeldore?"

"Nevermind. No, it was the Dark Lord himself that gave this locket to me."  
Harry's eyes stilled and realization came over him, his fingers on the locket became more careful and Bellatrix smiled.

"Yes, I was lucky enough to be found by our Lord as a young girl. He himself wore this in his Hogwarts days, and the original wearer was none other than Salazar Slytherin." She said both the name of the Dark lord and of Slytherin with absolute reverence, and Harry was too stunned to think straight.

"But why… why are you giving this to me?" he asked, quietly.

"Two reasons." She smiled indulgently. "Firstly, because I formed that ring you smashed myself. Anyone with the power to break it is welcome to everything my school and talents have to offer; you'll be an asset to my Master one day."  
Harry nodded, letting the locket fall against his skin and smiling as warmth flourished through him.

"And secondly?" he asked.

"Secondly, I don't want my castle blowing to bits, and this is the most powerful talisman available." She winked.

Shortly after giving him a warning of exactly what she would do to him if he ever lost the locket, she sent him back to his lessons. Harry got through his remaining classes in a daze, completely disbelieving that he was now in possession of a millennia old locket made by Slytherin himself.  
He slept deeply that night, dreaming of days when he would be a renowned death eater, and even the dark lord would know his name.

* * *

Far away, in a minor castle in the south of England, the Dark Lord could not concentrate. Before him, spread across a grand mahogany desk, were war maps. The Americans were not cooperating with him, and it would be just a matter of time before he was forced to invade their ministry and take control by force. It would be messy, but it would be quick; he had more wands on his side, and his wands were better trained and disciplined. Whereas in the muggle world, muggle America had more "fire power" than muggle Europe; it was quite the opposite in the magical world. Their Head Wizard knew they would be forced to submit, but was refusing on matter of principle. His principles being, of course, that the middle eastern Wizarding association were bribing him; they knew without the support of America, they too would fall beneath his wand.

Despite this, he couldn't seem to keep his mind on the task at hand. This irked him. He was usually a very focused, calculated man; he found no difficulty in concentrating for long periods of time, and didn't allow petty things to distract him from his goals. Today had proved different.  
He sat back in his soft, black leather arm chair and surveyed the room without really seeing it. This was his personal sanctuary, where he never allowed his death eaters to enter. It contained his most secret plans, his most beloved books, and magical artifacts that had been hard won. Beyond the desk and arm chair, the rest of the room was covered by a thick red carpet and the walls were lined with cedar bookshelves that were piled high with tomes. There were a few more chairs around the room, for when he wanted to relax. At the other side of the room was the door to his bedchamber, another place he never allowed another soul to enter.

The reason or his distraction was as perplexing as it was obvious. Days before, his little 'problem' had come to a climax. The emotions he had been sensing at the edges of his mind had been becoming gradually more intrusive; they weren't unpleasant, they were usually rather light and warm, but they were unwelcome simply by being of such an unknown origin. He had been debating how to go about finding their source, when it had happened. A blinding surge of terror had filled him for a moment; the presence at the edge of his mind had become suddenly prominent and clear, and he felt the rush of warmth through his chest as he could practically taste the magic of the invader. If he had not been so caught off guard by the apex, he'd have been able to 'grab' the magic he was sensing and apparrate to its source. Yet, as quickly as it was there, it was gone.  
Frustrated, the source had become the gentle humming he was accustomed to for the next two days. Voldemort waited, and waited; if it were to happen again, he would be ready.  
But it never came. The surge did not repeat itself, and then, hours ago the humming had stopped entirely. It was as if the source were dead, if it were indeed a living thing. Voldemort had not realised how much he'd grown accustomed to the presence until it was gone entirely.

It solved his problem. If whomever or whatever was causing the disturbance to his cool, intelligent mind was dead then he didn't have to bother seeking them out. He logically reminded himself that this was a positive development.  
The only mystery that remained now, was why he felt such an acute sense of loss.

 


	6. The Marauders Were Here

**31st October 1995**

A fifteen year old boy with a mop of wild black hair, eyes the colour of a killing curse and a vocabulary akin to the muggle sailors he'd seen in the contraband books he had secreted away– this is Harry James Potter at the beginning of his fifth year. He also happened to be in the midst of a particularly imaginative fight, which had become a rather happy habit as of late.  
Exhausted and breathing heavily, he paused to wipe away the sweat that had his hair plastered to his forehead. Opening his stinging eyes, he caught sight of himself in the mirrored walls of the room they had self appointed for their weekly exercise. He was caked in dust and dirt, his forehead dripping with sweat, and his white school shirt had become transparent against the perspiration of his chest. His locket hung loosely about his neck, cool against his hot skin; the emerald encrusted snake matching the glinting menace in his own green eyes. He tilted his head, distracted by the mad grin the reflection wore; he hadn't realised he was even smiling, and was stunned for a moment to be reminded considerably of Bellatrix.

"Pay attention, Potter. You won't beat us both when you aren't even looking. You aren't that good!" jeered the arrogant blonde, whom Harry had the misfortune of counting amongst his closest friends.

"Oh, aren't I?" Harry called back, not even flinching as a cutting hex rebounded from a wall close to his ear, as he whirled to face the pair.

"You're exhausted already." remarked Blaise as he approached, looking intense and haggard. He always took their duels so seriously.  
"You can't honestly hope to take us both simultaneously."  
Harry offered a tight, knowing smile. Draco's eyes began to widen with surprise and mild horror, recognising the expression of his friend well. Blaise raised his wand. Draco recoiled. Moments later, both the boys were gagged and being held from the ceiling by their ankles. They thrashed about wildly, as Harry looked up at them and chuckled. He enjoyed his life.

Half an hour later, after taking liberal advantage of the showers kindly provided by the Room of Requirement, the three boys were walking towards the great hall in animated discussion. They had replaced their 'duelling robes' with their school robes, and had caught their breath. All three still had an unmistakeable flush of pleasure and excitement in their cheeks as they spoke.

"We nearly had you, Harry." claimed Draco. "If you'd have been an inch or so further left when I cast the Imperius curse, it'd have been over."

"No, it wouldn't have been." interrupted Blaise with a frown. "He could break your hold before you could even think of another spell. Although I'm sure it was purely luck that let him escape my fiend fyre-"

"Fiend fyre? That fire was about as dark as a first year Hufflepuff!" exclaimed Draco, laughing and shoving Blaise playfully.

"Well you can't cast the spell at all!" responded Blaise, hotly. "We only learned it a month ago!"

Harry listened to the two arguing comfortably with a lazy smile on his face. They had begun their own little duelling club at the end of last year, and he really quite enjoyed it. For one thing, it gave him some time to rough house away from the prying eyes of the rest of the school. Of course, everyone knew he was brilliant, but he only really liked to show off in front of his nearest and dearest. It helped that the club gave him the opportunity to spend quite a bit more time with the boys, who had been so busy studying for the Yule exams lately. Draco and Blaise made great practice, being intelligent, cunning and downright underhanded in a duel.  
Everyone in their year was ranked in accordance to duelling ability on a big chart outside the Head Mistress' office, and this year the two were ranked third and fourth, with Draco in the lead. They were duly proud of this, given they'd finally pulled ahead of the Ravenclaw who had been on their tails. They didn't expect, however, to broach the first two spots; Harry and Hermione had been firmly first and second respectively since the rankings began in their second year. Attempts to dislodge them had never gone unpunished.

The last four years had passed quickly for Harry. So much had happened, yet it seemed such a short time ago that he had been a snot-nosed first year jumping at shadows, and terrified of Professor Snape. He had quickly risen in the ranks; from the moment he'd blown up Bellatrix' classroom on his first day, he'd known he was special. He had continued to progress in leaps and bounds, showing an agile comprehension of magic and a limitless well of power. His locket, Slytherins locket, prevented him from doing anything too incredible or damaging – but Harry still never really tired out, still healed quickly and never found a spell that was beyond his abilities.  
He and Hermione had been placed in the accelerated programme, nicknamed 'the junior death eaters' (or DE for short), from that first Yule, along with Draco and Blaise.  
It was hard work; they pushed their limits with spells of unbelievable complexity, learned advanced duelling techniques and pushing their bodies and minds to the point of exhaustion. The rewards, however, were very worth it. DE's had their own common room, situated on the seventh floor, with a library that was reportedly better stocked than the Ravenclaws'. They got their own badge, which was treated with more deference than a prefects. They even had their own parties, often hosted by the elder Malfoy at his manor, where they mingled with real death eaters and aristocrats and made what Hermione and Draco called "vital connections".

There was also, as Hermione had recently proven, a real chance of adoption. Children at the orphanage were seldom adopted, due to the stigma surrounding their blood status or the affiliation of their birth parents. The only ones Harry had seen adopted in his childhood were those with living magical relatives that didn't trust the orphanage to raise their kin. Now, however, things were beginning to change.  
During the summer, he and Hermione had been up late talking. Harry had conjured some food from the kitchens, and they had spent hours snacking and laughing, feeling as young and mischievous as they were – when Hermione had received an owl.  
Surprised, she had opened the letter to find it was from Bellatrix. Bellatrix had become quite a mentor to Hermione over the years; pushing her to perform at her best, to put aside childish ideas of morality to gain advantage, and to be supremely confident in all things. Harry knew that they had grown close, and that pureblood society was rather shocked to see Bellatrix doting on a mudblood. There had been rumours that she was going soft, until they saw exactly what Hermione could do. She had proved her brilliance yet again in an inter-house tournament, when a spell she had invented brought a seventh year opponent to his knees within the first five minutes of a duel.

Clutching the letter, her eyes had widened. Harry had questioned her, concerned. She'd gone on to explain that Bellatrix, who's husband had died in the wizarding war and had neither the ability nor desire to bear children, had realised the necessity of preserving the Black line. Regulus, the only other living descendent of the Black line who carried the Black name, did not care for it's continuance. Her sister, Narcissa, carried the Malfoy name. Bellatrix had therefore decided that blood adoption – a worthy replacement for birth children in the eyes of pure blood society – was a viable option.  
Harry had been confused by this unexpected admission, before he too had blanched in realisation. Bellatrix was going to adopt Hermione, and give her maiden name to her. It was an unprecedented honour, and an utter shock.

The plan, as far as Harry knew, was to go through with the adoption ritual at Yuletide. Hermione was as excited as she was terrified; she was going to be elevated into the ranks of 'pure bloods', and have a guardian who was second only to the Dark Lord. Hermione was going to have a family. She was also going to be tied to Bellatrix for the rest of her life, and have to obey her, as the head of her house. Bellatrix was as demanding as she was mad, so Harry could understand the trepidation.

Harry paused in his nostalgia as they entered the great hall, and immediately headed towards Hermione, who was deep in discussion with Daphne and Astoria Greengrass. Thinking of her upcoming adoption had made him miss her, given she'd not had much time for socialising since the announcement. Between studying, preparing for the ceremony, and dealing with the new found attention, she'd not had much time for him.  
He sat down next to her without a word, offering her a grin as she turned a surprised eye towards him. Draco and Blaise sat down awkwardly across from them, next to Astoria. He resisted the urge to roll his eyes as Draco quickly began a conversation with Astoria, pointedly avoiding Hermione.  
Draco had always been like this. At first, he'd ignored Hermione out of snobbiness and pride, irritated at the presence of a mudblood in his house. After first year however, even when Hermione blossomed into a brilliant witch and the rest of the house accepted her eagerly as their own, Draco had continued to pretend she didn't exist. Boys fawned all over her, as she had developed physically as well as magically in the four years past, but Draco never even met her eyes. Hermione didn't seem to notice or care, but it irked Harry. He had once heatedly questioned Draco on the matter, and had been surprised by the blonde's answer.  
"It would seem disgustingly grasping of me." he had said, "to ignore the girl, only to fall over myself for her attention, now she has proved herself worthy. If Granger wishes to befriend me, then I'm sure she'll speak to me herself."  
Harry hadn't pushed the matter, but wondered if Hermione, in her lack of awareness even knew he put such thought into not paying her any attention.

"Well hello, your highness." began Harry, smirking as Hermione batted at him and rolled her eyes. "How do you fair, this fine Hallows eve?"

"Quite well." she smiled tiredly, and Harry noted she had bags beneath her eyes. Hermione always slept fitfully when she had something on her mind.

"And you, ladies?" Harry asked, smiling smoothly towards the Greengrass sisters.

"I'm great." said Daphne, her eyes sparkling with excitement. "Are you boys coming to the Malfoy ball tonight? We were just discussing what to wear!"

"I am indeed coming, and I'm sure you'd look ravishing in anything, Daphne." Harry winked, to which Hermione groaned. Harry was a perpetual flirt, even if he was yet to actually seek out a girlfriend.

"I'm coming." nodded Blaise. "What's the theme this year, Draco, I haven't read the invitation?"  
Draco, who had been wearing an expression of quiet surprise, snapped himself back to reality.

"Oh. It's a masquerade ball this year. For the first part of the night, everyone has to wear glamours and mingle. Mother's idea."

"It's such a great idea, too!" responded Astoria, excitedly. "Although I'm not sure I'm too good at glamour charms..."

"It's alright, I'll set yours for you." Daphne responded, soothing her younger sister.

"You're invited this year then, Hermione?" Harry asked, happy but not entirely surprised. Hermione had always been invited to the DE events, but had never been invited to the balls the Malfoys threw independently before. Given her imminent change of status though, it wasn't really a shock.

"Yes." Hermione responded, smiling nervously. "Lady Malfoy sent me a letter, actually. She's eager to meet her soon-to-be 'niece' and would love for me to come to the party. Bellatrix won't be there though, she's away on some business for the Dark Lord."  
Hermione glanced up at Draco, who caught her eye. She was talking about the boy's mother after all. She smiled at him, and for the first time in years, engaged him in conversation. "Are these events as enjoyable as rumour says, Draco?" she asked, politely.  
The table went quite still, as everyone but Hermione seemed aware of how momentous a step this was. Draco was quiet for a few seconds, before finally responding.

"I enjoy them, yes. They get a little repetitive after a while though. Too many society bints trying to whore themselves into my marriage bed." he pointedly looked towards Pansy Parkinson, who was sat a ways away, conversing with Millicent Bulstrode.  
It was a blunt statement for Draco, which Harry put down to nerves, but Hermione chuckled anyway.

"And that's a common thing, is it? For people our age to receive proposals?" she said this in a tone of quiet surprise.

"You have no idea!" exclaimed Daphne, smiling knowingly. "Last time, Garalius Goyle tried to speak to my Father about an engagement. Can you imagine? Me, with a Goyle?" the girl shuddered.  
"Thankfully, my Father refused outright. He's got his eyes set on engaging me to one of the Krums, from Bulgaria. They've been quite in favour ever since eastern Europe joined the alliance. Plus, they're filthy rich."

Blaise rolled his eyes. Harry, who only knew anything about the pureblood politics through the rants and explanations of his friends, knew Blaise was classed as nouveaux riche amongst other purebloods - and so didn't quite understand the way they saw marriage as a game of chess. Although, Harry also knew from hushed conversations with the Slytherins, that Blaise's mother treated marriage like a rigged game of Russian roulette.

"Oh dear." said Hermione, blushing a tad. "I don't think anyone would do that sort of thing with me, would they?"

"Are you kidding?" asked Harry, smiling genially. "Who wouldn't want to marry you, 'Mione? You're a catch."

"He's right." remarked Draco, before pausing and adopting a look of horrified embarrassment. "What I mean is – with the change in your circumstances, and your academic merit, it's likely you'll receive some propositions. My Mother should have warned you."

"Perhaps you should be her chaperone, Draco." suggested Blaise, a dark smile playing across his lips. "You know, to prevent her being overwhelmed by it all."  
Draco threw him a murderous look, and began to speak, but was cut off by Hermione.

"Would you really?" asked Hermione, innocently. "I'd be ever so grateful. This is all quite new to me."

"I.. Well. Yes, if that's what you want. I'd be happy to help you acclimate." said Draco, not nearly as cool as he usually was.  
Harry grinned as the scene unfolded before him, and knew Blaise would be on the receiving end of Draco's wand for putting him in such a compromising position. It was a good thing, all in all. Draco really did need to get off his high horse and get to know the girl who was quickly becoming the star of his house.

* * *

After lunch, Harry collared Draco into playing a game of don't-let-the-bludger-knock-you-off-your-broom, and the two headed off towards the black lake alone. Blaise was never much of a flier, and Hermione would rather spend her time reading or experimenting. Even Ron and Neville, who Harry had cajoled Draco into associating with – 'I suppose they are purebloods, in the loosest sense of the term' – were busy with the homework they were almost constantly behind with. Ron was especially lazy, and not especially bright, and he often suffered under the wands of his teachers. Draco claimed that the only Weasleys of this generation with any discernible talent were the twins, Fred and George, that were currently seventh years. They were perhaps the most rebellious teenagers Hogwarts had seen in years, but their obvious magical ability and talents kept them out of suffering too much at the hands of the school disciplinary system.

"That's their mother's blood." Draco had claimed, ever attached to his idea that blood was the basis of all things. "She's a Prewett by birth. They were a powerful light family that were mostly killed off in the Great Wizarding War. Her brother, Gideon, is mentioned as one of the greatest duellers the light had to offer."

He and Draco had conversations like that now and again, but they almost always ended in awkward silences and tension. Draco knew that Harry's family had been a light one, killed in the war; he knew Harry had been raised without a family because of the ideologies that Draco's family had supported. They had never, despite their closeness, talked about how Harry felt about that. It just wasn't done. The only person Harry ever spoke to about his parents was Hermione, who had been by his side since they were toddlers.

In truth, he wasn't sure how he felt about anything anymore. The ideals he had been brought up to believe had been sharply called into question since his time at Hogwarts. Their lessons, of course, taught the same creed as the orphanage. They both taught the history of the wizarding war in the same fashion: the light-affiliated, corrupt ministry had periodically sought to suppress witches and wizards who were skilled in the dark arts. This was ridiculous and prejudiced, given that everyone knows you cannot control what inclination your magical core has. Muggle-born students were raised in the muggle world, and being silly children unable to hide their accidental magic, put the magical world in danger of discovery. The ministry made no move to stop this, because so many of their officials were mudbloods whose allegiance lay with the muggles that raised them, and not with the magical world where they belonged. When the Dark Lord began to try and change the corruption of the ministry, and give equality to dark arts practitioners, he was opposed by a man called Albus Dumbeldore. Dumbeldore was very powerful and clever, but blindly hated the dark arts with the same intolerance that was typical of his age. When Dumbeldore and his followers were defeated, the Dark Lord created the new world and the great wizarding war ended.  
Harry had never questioned this much in his childhood; one believes what one is taught as a young child. He had no knowledge of his parents, and no loyalty to their memory. It wasn't until he had stumbled across a secret room in his third year that much of his opinions had changed at all.

It had been the spring of his third year, and Harry had been a few months shy of fourteen. He had been in the library, and rather bored at that, when he picked up a book called 'Security and Sorcery: an advanced guide to warding and detection spells'. Interested, Harry had browsed the book, before a spell bluntly named 'the anti-concealment spell' had caught his eye. It did what it said on the tin, revealing the presence of spaces protected by concealment wards. It was a complex spell, involving seven different wand movements and requiring a very strong control over ones willpower, and it had taken him several weeks to perfect it.

When he did though, it provided him with hours of fun about the castle. He didn't even tell Draco, his comrade in mischief, or Hermione, who always found new spells fascinating. Instead, he kept the secret all to himself, wanting to explore the hidden crevices of the castle at his leisure. The book had warned him that the type of passages it would reveal depended largely on the caster; it would take someone as magically adept as the person that created the ward to dispel it. This didn't seem to give Harry any problems, however, and before long he had discovered the 'Room of Requirement' – something Blaise had to set to looking for a year previous – and various tunnels that lead out of the castle.

It had been almost summer by the time Harry found the final room that the charm would uncover. His friends had been busy with one thing or another, and he'd been alone on the fifth floor, leisurely using his new spell on a particularly disused corridor, when a door had appeared. Excited, he'd quickly entered the secret room, only to find that it was mostly empty.  
He'd gone inside, shutting the door behind him and decided to explore more thoroughly before giving up on it. The walls were red and gold – the colour of his house, he mused – and the dusty floor was mostly covered by a large cream rug. Against one wall, there was a large chest of drawers that seemed equally disused. The only thing that gave the room any sense of mystery were five words scrawled across the far wall in a messy script 'The Marauders were here, 1976.'

He had spent many hours that day in the marauders room, finding that it was far from the empty space it had first appeared. In the chest of drawers were various muggle books - Harry had never seen a muggle book, as they had mostly been destroyed for their corrupting influence – and books on spells Harry had never heard of before. There were histories Harry hadn't seen, some recounting the war from the perspective of the enemy.  
He'd returned to the room to read his secret books many times over the coming months, and shortly after the beginning of his fourth year, he'd found the countless other texts; letters and items that were hidden beneath the floorboards. They'd kickstarted Harry's interest in what had really happened in the war that ended shortly after he was born, and began to call into question much of what Harry thought true. Although he was far from starting a rebellion, he did want answers. A small entry scrawled on a piece of parchment beneath the floorboards summed his doubts up perfectly, "History is written by the victors".  
He never spoke of the room to his friends. He didn't know how they would react to the ideas that were starting to grow in his heart and mind, and he didn't want to find out. How would his best friends – Draco, the poster boy for pure blood decorum, and Hermione, an avid practitioner of the dark arts that was shortly to be adopted by a woman so steeped in dark magic it was a wonder she'd kept any semblance of sanity – think of him, sat on the floor of a dusty room, reading the philosophical ramblings of a man caught up in the wrong side of the war, who signed his articles only as 'Moony'?  
He did, however, slowly begin to make the room more comfortable. It started off with just a few cleaning spells, and tidying all the texts away into the chest of drawers. As time went on, however, he began to add more creature comforts: an arm chair to peruse the books in, a bookshelf to store them more easily, a music player, his own books, a conjured bed for if he wanted a quick rest. Gradually, he created his own den. He didn't sleep there often, or stay there for very long periods of time; but it was nice to have a place he could be away from the world when need be. It was the chalkboard for his developing mind; the place where he was just Harry, where he could learn who 'just Harry' really was.

Most of the time, however, Harry really was just an ordinary teenage boy. His biggest concerns were becoming Captain of the Quidditch team, performing well enough in his classes to avoid a whipping from Bellatrix, getting time to socialise and misbehave with his friends, and of course, being good enough to enter to the international duelling competition on his seventeenth birthday. The contestants of the competition were treated like celebrities by the students of Hogwarts, and Harry wouldn't mind a little positive notoriety.

Harry and Draco played their game late into the afternoon, varying the rules and generally tiring themselves out. They had the boundless energy of youth, and the same lack of responsibility. It wasn't until Blaise - wearing an unbuttoned dress shirt and a loose tie – arrived looking irritated, and informed them they had twenty-five minutes until the portkey activated to take them to the ball, that they thought of anything but their fun.  
Twenty-three minutes of rushed preening later, with Harry forgoing a trip to his own dormitory and instead getting dressed hurriedly in Draco's room, left the boys clean and donning expensive dress robes. Draco had bought said dress robes for him for his last birthday, claiming that he couldn't have his poor orphan friend looking like the pauper he was. Harry had hexed him of course, but had been rather touched by the consideration. Orphans had a limited budget for clothes and school supplies, and he was sick of wearing obviously cheap robes to the Malfoy Balls that Draco had been inviting him to since second year.  
Blaise had laid on the bed waiting, unabashed as the boys flung their clothes on. Both of them had long ago got over Harry's proclivity towards nakedness, and lost their shyness about the matter. Although they still tried to impart some pureblood etiquette on him in public, they had resigned themselves to his messy ways in private.

"Ready?" drawled Blaise, punctual and impatient as ever. The portkey was beginning to glow.

"Ready." Harry replied, brightly.

"Just about." Draco answered, casting a final charm to keep his hair in place. He was quite vain, when the mood took him.

"Preening for Granger?" teased Blaise, smirking.

"Remind me to hex you for that, later." retorted Draco, glaring.

"Now, now, Drake. Be on your best behaviour." Harry winked, placing a hand on the portkey. "Since she'll kick your arse, if you aren't."

"I'm always a gentleman!" said Draco, indignantly placing his own hand by Harry's.

"Tell that to Pansy Parkinson." muttered Blaise, and Draco punched him playfully on the arm.

"I'm quite looking forward to tonight." Harry said, offering his friends an affectionate smile.

"Should definitely be interesting." agreed Draco.

"Always fun to cause trouble." Harry winked.

"I swear to Morgana, Potter. If you transfigure one of the peacocks again, my mother will personally  _crucio_  you into oblivion."

"Your mother loves me, Drake. I'm the son she actually wanted." Harry laughed, and Draco rolled his eyes. The portkey began to warm up.

"Do try to behave yourself, Harry." said Blaise, tiredly. "After all. Draco has a date."

They were tugged from the room before Draco even had a chance to swear at him.

 


	7. The Malfoy Masquerade

**Evening, 31st October1995.**

Malfoy manor was a fairytale that night. An almost unrealistic display of wealth and status, all tied together by the incredible hosting talents of Narcissa Malfoy. A socialite to her bones, she had personally overseen every detail of the decorations and planning for the party, as she had every year since Harry had known her.  
Narcissa, a middle-aged blonde beauty who didn't look a day over thirty (probably owing to her powerful Black ancestry, who were famous for their longevity), was wearing an elegant black dress. It was long, tied over one shoulder, and revealed a good portion of her lower back. It had intricate brocade inlaid with what was, undoubtedly, actual diamonds. Narcissa, as always, was the very face of old pureblood money. When the boys arrived – appearing out of thin air on the veranda, having been delivered by port key – her delicate features broke into an unrestrained smile.

"My darling son." she said affectionately, as she opened her arms to him.

Draco rolled his eyes, as if embarrassed by his Mother's show of affection, but Harry knew how much Draco missed his mother when he was at Hogwarts. He quickly enveloped his mother in his arms, having grown taller than her since this time last year.  
"Mother." he responded formally, but with a tender warmth that characterized the two's relationship.

Narcissa's gaze lingered on her son's face for a moment, as if trying to discern any changes in him in the two months since she had last seen him. A heartbeat later, she turned her attention to Harry and Blaise.  
"And if it isn't the two trouble-makers." she smirked, raising an eyebrow at the pair.

"Lady Malfoy, you wound me!" exclaimed Harry, grinning at the woman. "I do not make trouble, it merely finds me."

"And I somehow end up involved whenever I try to stop trouble 'finding him'" grumbled Blaise, a serious young man by all accounts, who resented the reputation garnered by being best friends with Harry Potter.

"Well see to it that it doesn't find you tonight, young man." she warned, smiling fondly.  
When Harry had first met Narcissa, he knew she'd had her doubts about him. She wasn't keen on her son being so close to a half-blood, let alone one whose family had been so closely affiliated with the wrong side of the war. However, over time, she had come to enjoy his 'mischievous charm' and recognize his talent. Harry also believed she appreciated the affection he had for Draco Harry had yet to allow Draco to be harmed in their adventures, despite the amount of times he, himself had ended up in the hospital wing.  
Narcissa turned her attention to all three of them. "Now, I really do want you all on your best behaviour tonight. The Dark Lord is here – "  
Harry and Blaise threw Draco a significant look. They knew, of course, that his father was a Death Eater. It was still a surprise, however, for the Dark Lord to be present. From what they knew, it was rare for Voldemort to frequent social events. It was momentarily stunning to be reminded of exactly how important Draco's family was.  
"- And he's not one to tolerate wild teenagers. Do try to be good. Now, if you make your way to the parlour, an area has been erected for you all to put on your glamours for the masquerade part of the evening."  
Narcissa, obviously pleased with herself, gave the boys a final smile before making her excuses and going to greet the next arrival.

When the boys left the veranda, they were welcomed by a large entrance hall. Wizards and witches of all ages buzzed around the room, making light conversation and liberal use of the free-flowing champagne. The room had a grand feel to it: a varnished wooden floor covered in intricately patterned green and silver rugs, old stone walls were covered in tapestries and portraits of Malfoy ancestors. There was even a long table filled with an assortment of entrees, in case any of the guests couldn't wait until the elaborate feast served during the second half of the evening.  
The people present were obviously wealthy. Harry had enough experience of these parties by now to make a few educated guesses about the guest list. Politicians and foreign dignitaries, old pureblood aristocracy, new money and just about anyone with an iota of influence in the European wizarding world. They displayed this wealth in their finely made robes, clearly cut from expensive fabrics, and in jewels too, that the women wore, subtly enough as to not appear gaudy. Mostly, though, they showed off their wealth and power in the way they held themselves; confident, as if they had been born knowing the world was at their feet.  
To the right of the room, next to a pair of heavy oak doors, a servant was directing stragglers through to the parlour area. Draco held a hand out as they approached the door, turning towards them.

"Right, gentleman – " he paused, giving Harry a wry smile. "-And Harry. So what kind of glamours will you be wearing?"

"That would be ruining the fun, Draco." responded Harry, smirking.

"Well we need to be able to recognize each other, surely?" asked Draco, perplexed.

"No, I don't think we do. I'm going to mingle." Harry chuckled darkly, and Blaise began to look alarmed.

"Oh Morgana. Just don't tell anyone who you are after you've finished harassing them." came Blaise.

"In fact, how about not harassing anyone at all?" suggested Draco. "How about you sit in a corner, alone,  
on your hands?"  
Harry rolled his eyes, and together they made their way into the parlour room.

It was a small, comfortable room, with a fireplace at its centre. A large sofa next to a bookcase against one side gave it a homely feel, and in fact, Harry had spent long nights in this room. Whenever he came to stay at Malfoy Manor he seemed to end up reading here, when the other guests had long been asleep.  
Against one wall, several large screens had been erected. Wizards and witches would disappear behind them for a few seconds, and then an entirely different person would re-emerge. As Harry watched, a pair of middle-aged female twins disappeared behind the screen for a long moment, and then reappeared as two identical Celestina Warbecks.  
Harry, suppressing the urge to cheer, shouldered Draco.

"Look, your girlfriend is here, Draco." Harry laughed. It was no secret that Draco was a huge fan of the singer.

"How did they even do that?" Draco asked, surprised.

"I imagine they used polyjuice potion." replied Blaise, equally confused.

"Where did they get some of Celestina Warbeck's hair!" demanded Draco.

Harry and Blaise laughed at his fan-like response, and then Harry bid them goodbye.  
"I'll see you lot at the feast. I'm going to have some fun."

Slipping behind the screen, Harry waited until he heard Draco and Blaise do the same. Quickly, he lifted his wand to his face.  
First, he cast a charm on his hair, turning the inky black colour to a pale blonde and shortening it slightly. Next, he turned his green eyes to a brown colour, adding a few distinctive gold flecks. These sort of charms were precise work, but Harry had always been good at spells he could use for mischief.  
Pulling a potion out of the pocket of his robes and uncorking it, he read the instructions a final time. Ageing potion. Taking a single gulp, he felt himself grow several inches and broaden. He had taken enough of the potion to reach his late twenties. Observing himself in the mirror, he cast a final spell to tan his skin. He looked vaguely Australian, like the surfers he had read about in one of the magazines hidden beneath the floorboards of the marauder room. He grinned at his reflection, and he assumed were the figures of Draco and Blaise were still hidden behind their respective screens, so he took the opportunity to leave the parlour before them. Making his way back to the entrance hall, he was shown by a servant to the 'dancing hall'. What a place the dancing hall was, too.

It was a huge room; the one they used every year for these functions. This year, it seemed to be more richly decorated than ever. Music was being played in the rear corner of the room, and most of the population were milling about rather than actually dancing. This was always the case until everyone got enough drink in them. Harry, who now looked quite old enough to do exactly that, was offered a firewhisky by a passing waiter. He smiled by means of agreement, and downed a tumbler quickly, before joining the population of the room.

"Why, hello there, young man." came a woman who had attempted a terrible makeover charm as her 'mask'. It was poorly done; Harry could see the shimmering image of a pretty blonde, but beneath, the real image of a frumpy middle-aged woman with a huge nose shone through. "And who might you be?"

"Well, that would be telling, madam." Harry said, with a wink. "And yourself? I don't believe I've seen such a pretty young creature here before."

Harry didn't think it hurt to stroke the ego of a woman that so obviously needed the attention.  
"I won't tell if you won't." she winked, chortling to herself. "Although I will say this: I am rather important!"

Harry laughed along with the woman, as if she had told a particularly funny joke. Inside, however, he felt a little disgusted. There weren't many here that didn't think of themselves as important, and there was a good few that actually were. To say it so blatantly was desperation at its finest, and no one, no matter how kind, liked to look upon desperation. Harry forced himself to speak to the woman for a while; it became apparent she was the head of some ministry office or another, and eventually, Harry made his excuses. Aiming straight for the drinks table, he was quickly joined by a gentleman who had given himself a rather outlandish appearance. With red skin, short dark horns and black eyes; the man had made himself look like the demons from old mythology. It was a little spooky, but also quite a talented bit of transfiguration. The demon man gave Harry a knowing smile, as he gulped down another tumbler of whisky.

"Got stuck with Madame Travers, didn't you?" asked the man, offering Harry another tumbler. "She's a dreadful bore. This damn masquerade is making it all the harder for me to avoid the people I don't like. Then again, I suppose that's the point."

Harry laughed. "Yes. Narcissa seems to have gone to great lengths to force the usual factions to mingle."

"You're on first name terms with Lady Malfoy?" the man raised an eyebrow. "I'd say that I don't recognize you, but then that's just a testament to your charms skills I suppose. Are you just using superficial alteration charms?"

"And an ageing potion." Harry responded, flashing the man a baleful smile.

"And I take it you aren't usually given such easy access to the firewhisky?" responded the man, shrewdly. "Do take it easy then, my boy. There's a reason adults don't spend all their days blind drunk. Sometimes the consequences aren't worth it."

The man lifted a glass of champagne, and toasted the air in front of Harry. "Do enjoy the evening, my young friend. Perhaps we'll meet again sometime."  
The man swanned off into the crowd, and Harry felt a certain sense of relief that someone at this party could be interesting. It helped that the buzz from the alcohol was starting to make him feel a little more playful. He wasn't drunk yet, of course – much experience of drinking contraband with his friends, hidden away in the room of requirement had given him an iron liver – but he was getting rather merry.

Forty-five minutes past in much the same way for Harry. He spoke to many people, wearing varying degrees of disguise. Some were interesting; they tended to have well placed disguise charms, and liked to drop subtle hints as to their occupations. He was quite sure that he'd met the German Minister for Magic earlier, and liked to think he'd made a rather good impression. The man had even said that if Harry ever fancied a career in international relations, he should contact him. When Harry had asked for a confirmation of who the mysterious man was, and where to reach him, the man had merely tapped his nose. 'If you want to work for me, boy, then you'd better figure out how.'  
Some turned out to be rather boring. Ministry busybodies, and pureblood toffs. One woman was very clearly Pansy Parkinson's aunt, since she had only bothered to change her hair, and she went about talking obnoxiously about the appalling number of half-bloods present.  
The woman had irritated him so much, that by the time he came to speak to a violet haired girl that asked him which books he preferred, he was almost too bored to realise it was clearly Hermione. After a few minutes of conversation, he asked her directly.

"Sorry, I don't suppose you're that insanely clever girl from Hogwarts?" Harry asked, smirking.

"I. Erm. That is to say – " began the violet haired girl, embarrassed.

"You know, amazing dueller, gorgeous, bested only by the incomparable talents of Sir Harry Potter."

The violet haired girls eyes widened with surprise, and then mock irritation as she batted him.  
"Harry!" she scolded, with a smile on her face.

"Hermione." he smiled. "I'm so glad I found you. These stiffs were getting old. Weren't you meant to be with Draco?"

Hermione nodded. "But I think I arrived before you three, and then I was in disguise, and I assumed you were too. This masquerade business is rather confusing."

"It is, isn't it? Makes it more fun than the usual dry start." he reasoned.

"Dry? But you lot always go on about how fun the Malfoy parties are!" she asked, confused by his unusual reticence.

"Oh, they are! But not the part that's organized by dear Lady Malfoy. This part we just use for all the free alcohol."

"I don't think I follow?" she asked.

"Essentially, after the feast, us and anyone we like – mostly Hogwarts students, and a few interesting extras – sneak off to one of the closed off bits of the manor, get blind drunk, and have some actual fun."

Hermione raised an eyebrow and then shook her head, adamantly. "No. No way can I do that. This is the first time I've been invited to one of these things? I can't possibly get into trouble with Bellatrix's sister."

Harry rolled his eyes. "Hermione, last summer, Bellatrix was one of the extras."

Hermione's eyes widened, and she let out a surprised laugh. "Bellatrix? Really? You got drunk with our Head Mistress – right hand to the Dark Lord – Master Dueler? She willingly came and had drinks with you."

"She even invented a drinking game that may have scarred me for life. You should know your new guardian can't stand to be bored. Isn't she always telling you to misbehave a little more?"

"I suppose." Hermione relented, still looking a little nervous.

"Here." Harry said, pulling a couple of shots of indiscernible origin from a passing waiter. "This will take the edge off."

They downed the shots together, and Harry offered her an encouraging grin.  
"That's my girl. We'll have you thoroughly embarrassing yourself in no time."

* * *

By the time the feast was called, Harry had indeed gotten himself rather drunk. As Hermione shepherded him to their table with Draco, Blaise, Daphne and Astoria, he noticed he was the only one still wearing his glamour.

"Harry?" asked Draco, bemused.

"Yep!" he answered, sitting down heavily.

"He's had a little too much whisky, I'm afraid. Don't trust him to point a wand at himself at the moment" concluded Hermione, holding up Harry's wand. She herself had a bit of a blush to her cheeks.

"Him and half of everyone here." muttered Blaise.

Indeed, it did seem as thought many of those that attended the ball were tipsy. Some of the conversations were a little too loud to be polite, and the usually regal crowd had actually become rather pleasant. Harry barely noticed when the first course – thick white bread with some sort of broth – was served.

"Eat, Harry." ordered Draco. Harry obeyed, and began to shovel thickly buttered bread and hot broth into his mouth.

By the time the main course was served, the fog around Harry's mind was beginning to lift. He began to notice his surroundings a little more, and noted that the Dark Lord was sat at the 'head table' with Narcissa, Lucius and a few others. The man appeared obviously bored, and Harry couldn't help but stare. With short brunette hair, dark blue eyes and a perfect, fair complexion; the Dark Lord was beautiful. He was aristocratic; a combination of cool indifference and radiating power making him stand out from the rest of the room. That, and the deference he was treated with by everyone around him. Harry was momentarily stunned. He found himself, for the second time in his life, in the same room as the man who ruled half the world. He forced himself to look away, before anyone noticed his gawking.

"So who's coming to our private party this time?" asked Daphne, smiling sweetly.

"Well." Draco answered. "You and your sister. Myself, Blaise and Harry – and of course, you're invited Hermione – Theodore Nott is coming, with his younger brother. Viktor Krum – Oh don't grin like that, Daphne – and some of his entourage. And anyone you might want to drag along. We'll leave for my private lounge as soon as the feast is over."

"Won't your mother mind, Draco?" asked Hermione, tentatively.

"Oh, she knows what we get up to. She doesn't mention it though, so neither do I."  
Hermione nodded, comforted by this thought.

* * *

It took an hour for the feast to finally finish, and for the guests to begin to filter to the ballroom. The ballroom was larger than the dancing hall, with more seating areas, and a more formal appeal. This part of the evening would be far more political; promises would be made, exchanges, and thinly veiled threats. These kind of parties were only half about the alcohol and gossip, for the upper-classes present. Harry wanted nothing to do with this dreary part of the evening, and luckily, neither did any of his friends. Within ten minutes of the feast concluding, they found themselves sprawled around Malfoy's lounge.  
Harry grabbed a handful of pillows from Draco's bed in the adjoining room – much to his dismay – and distributed them across the floor, before perching himself on one. Blaise lit a fire, and conjured several board games. Draco ordered his house elf, Dobby, to steal as many drinks from the kitchen as possible. Hermione, much to everyone's surprise, produced a whole bagful of trick sweets. These were an interesting line that had recently been banned from Zonko's for their uses outside the realms of pranks. There were five kinds of sweets: one that made you only able to tell the truth, one that made you able to tell only lies, one that made you inhumanly bold, one that made you energetic, and one that filled you with nostalgia. The effects were short-lived, but entertaining.

"Granger, you are full of surprises!" admitted Theodore, grinning.

"These should be fun." Harry agreed, putting an arm around Hermione's shoulder. "Where on earth did you get black market pranks?"

"Bellatrix." said Hermione, shrugging.

Daphne picked up a pillow and laid herself on the floor. Astoria followed suit next to her, and Hermione sat cross-legged across from them, by Harry. Everyone had just sat or laid themselves into a messy circle, when Dobby appeared with a huge basket full of drinks.  
"For yous, young masters." said Dobby, plopping the basket down in the centre of the circle. "Yous be enjoying your youth tonight!"  
The giddy elf disappeared, and Draco merely shrugged, muttering something about the elf always being quite strange.  
Squealing happily, Astoria pulled a few crystal glasses from the basket, and a bottle of butterbeer. She began to serve herself, before offering it around the circle.

"Butterbeer?" asked Draco, sneering. "You're such a lightweight, Astoria!"

"My fourteen year old sister can be as much of a lightweight as she pleases." scolded Daphne, declining the offer of butterbeer, and instead picking some strawberry champagne.

Hermione peered into the basket, and then smiled, pulling out a bright yellow bottle.  
"My favourite, limoncello! Oh, no one ever has this at parties. How lovely." she began to pour herself a glass.

"It's my favourite too, you know." said Blaise, offering Hermione a rare smile. "It's served at every party, back in Italy."

"Ah yes, I forgot you were our resident Italian." remarked Daphne, grinning.

"Will someone just pass me some firewhisky?" said Harry, his easy smile contradicting the impatience of his words. He reached for basket, only to have it snatched away from him.

"Absolutely no one give him any more firewhisky." warned Draco.

As they were speaking, another figure entered the room. Viktor Krum, who had been absent up until now, entered with two companions.  
"Apologies, friends." He said, in his thick Bulgarian accent. He discarded his fur coat as he spoke. "It took me a while to get away from my Mother."  
Many of those in the circle nodded sympathetically, having similar parental situations of their own. Draco took the time to make introductions, since a few present hadn't met Viktor before. He also pointed out that Harry was Harry, and hadn't bothered to take off his glamour yet.

"Who are your friends, Viktor?" asked Harry, smiling welcomingly towards the pair. He had met Viktor several times before at parties, and had even once played against him at four-a-side quidditch, one hungover Sunday morning. If it weren't for the fact that he attended Durmstrang, Harry knew they'd have been fast friends.

"This is Vladimir Borisova." He gestured to the tall, dark haired male to his left. Then he put his arm around the waist of the young lady to his right "And this is Anastasia Karkaroff."

Draco raised an eyebrow. "You didn't tell me you were courting, Krum. A pleasure to have you here, Miss Karkaroff. You too, Mr Borisova."

Harry chuckled, still very merry. "Draco, how can you pull off that formality bollocks when you're shit-faced and laying on your stomach?"  
Draco rolled his eyes, and Viktor and his girlfriend smirked.

"We're engaged, actually." replied Viktor, casually. Harry was surprised by this, but then again, Viktor was several years their senior. It wasn't so unusual for a nineteen year old to be engaged in the pureblood population.  
A round of congratulations came from the circle, and the three sat themselves down in the circle. The boys flung off their formal jackets, and unbuttoned the top of their shirts, irritated by the stiff collars.

Harry laid on his back, sighing dramatically. Blaise and Draco threw him amused looks, secretly enjoying his antics.  
"Viktor, Draco has prevented me from enjoying my sacred right to limitless firewhisky. I don't suppose you have some vodka hidden away in that ridiculous coat?"  
Draco looked mortified, but Krum merely laughed. Harry was very good at becoming comfortable with people quickly, almost never using any semblance of formality.

"I'm afraid your english body couldn't stomach a drink made in my country, Harry. You seem to be drunk already." His thick eastern european accent was full of wry amusement.

"Me? Drunk? How dare you! I'd duel you, but Hermione has confiscated my wand." Harry pouted.

"A wise decision by a wise woman." said the girl, Anastasia, speaking for the first time. "Hermione... Are you Hermione Granger, by any chance?"

"I am." responded Hermione, surprised at the recognition.

"I saw you at the junior qualifiers last year!" exclaimed Anastasia. "You were magnificent. That spell you invented was genius."

"I… Well, thank-you." Hermione blushed, never having been good with compliments. "I mean, Harry was better. He did win."

Anastasia looked towards Harry, and a flash of realization passed over her. "You're Harry Potter? I didn't recognize you, of course. You too, were incredible. Such powerful spells, and you were so young. A fourteen year old with the arsenal of most grown death eaters. My father was spitting that you both went to Hogwarts instead of Durmstrang."

"Don't let him fool you." came Draco, lazily. "Beneath the genius, power and cleverness; he's really a complete twat."

The group fell into animated discussion. They talked about everything from sports, to politics, to the latest society gossip. They were all invited to Viktor and Anastasia's wedding next summer. As they talked, the drinks flowed. Everyone got a little braver, and sillier. Eventually, Daphne demanded that Hermione break out her supply of prank sweets.

"Right." Said Daphne, giggling. "This is how we'll do it. Everyone has to be assigned a number between one and – " she counted those present. "Nine. I'll turn around while you do so. Then I'll pick a number, and whomever it is, has to have a truth sweet."

There was a roar of agreement and refusal, but eventually, everyone was cowed into playing the game. Daphne turned around while they assigned numbers. Harry was number seven, which he took as a good omen. A minute later, Daphne turned around.  
"Alright. Number… Nine." She said, with a smile.

"Seriously?" demanded Blaise, paling. "No one ever picks the largest number."

Everyone laughed, and forced a truth sweet into Blaise's hand. He looked mildly mortified, but had no way of backing out. He ate the sweet, followed by a large gulp of limoncello, for courage.  
"Who was your first kiss?" began Astoria, grinning.

"Alba De Luca. We were six."

"What's your favourite colour?" asked Anastasia.

"Red."

"Who's the better seeker, me or Draco?" asked Harry, grinning at Draco.

"You, but you're not half as good as you think you are."  
Viktor laughed himself to tears at this comment, and Harry scowled, only half playfully.

"Who do you fancy?" asked Daphne.

Blaise seemed to be physically fighting with himself to not answer that question, but the sweet forced him. Harry realised it was quite similar to veritasirum, which made it's banning little surprise.  
"You." he said, gritting his teeth.

"Oh." said Daphne, seeming utterly surprised. "Oh, right."

Everyone in the circle looked away, clearing their throats at the awkwardness. Blaise looked positively fuming at the forced admission.  
"How about we steer clear of the truth ones for a while?" offered Hermione diplomatically, and everyone agreed.

The evening past enjoyably after that. No one mentioned what Blaise had said, although Daphne kept throwing him thoughtful glances. They played games, primarily drinking games, told stories and chatted the night away. Everyone present was staying the night in the manor. Viktor and his guests by invitation of Lord and Lady Malfoy, and the rest of them by Draco's.

"You could sleep in one of the bedrooms in this wing." offered Draco, late into the night. "Save you trying to get to the other side of the manor in the early hours of the morning." It was clear the party was going to continue for quite some time.

"I would." said Viktor, thoughtfully. "But we have all left our things there already."

Draco waved this protest away. "Nonsense. My elf will move them. Dobby?" There was no answering pop this time, and Draco looked puzzled. "Dobby? Oh, he must be serving Mother and Father. They've probably retired to the drawing room with their own friends by now."

"It's too far to  _accio_  them, too." said Daphne, from by the fireplace where she was chatting with Anastasia and Theodore.

"I'll go." Harry offered, standing from his place on the sofa. He had been idly playing chess with Blaise, but had just been beaten for the third time.

"Are you sure, Harry?" asked Hermione, concerned that Harry was still tipsy.

"I'm fine, 'Mione. The only thing left of my inebriation is a headache, unfortunately."

"Thank-you, Harry." said Viktor, clapping him on the back. "I couldn't navigate this place if I tried. I'll remedy your headache with some vodka, upon your return. See how long it takes for you to beg for your English drinks." He winked, and Harry smiled. He liked Viktor.  
Hermione gave him his wand back, with a warning about casting while under the influence. Truthfully, Harry was glad for the walk. His head still felt a little fuzzy, and he liked to explore the manor. He'd done it many times before, but there were always new places to find. Last time, he had discovered a library entirely devoted to the dark arts. The time before that, he had stumbled upon a dungeon.

He made his way in the vague direction of the guest wing, having been instructed by Draco of which rooms were given to the Krums. On the way, he opened all the doors that looked interesting; he always listened first, of course, and checked the doors for wards or alarms.  
It was when he was listening to one such door, that he heard something very strange.

 _"No mice in this place at all. Master should let me eat one of the humans. I shall ask him."_  
  
The words were very strange, and Harry resisted the urge to leave. Being a Gryffindor to his bones, his sense of self-preservation wasn't as powerful as his curiosity. He also felt protected by the glamour he still wore. If someone caught him, they wouldn't know him.

" _I hate this room. It's too small. I want to hunt."_  complained the voice.

Harry leaned closer to the door, his breathing hitched. Was someone being held prisoner? Someone who… ate mice? The voice sounded rasping, hissing almost.  
" _I smell food. I smell a human. Who's there?!_ " demanded the voice.

Harry's instincts told him to back away quickly, but he knew that if he did, curiosity would eat him up.  
" _Hello?_ " he called out, ready to bolt if necessary.

There was a pause from the voice, before it came again moments later. " _Who are you, that you speak my language? Show yourself._ "

" _Your language_?" Harry asked, confusion masking his concern. " _You're speaking English_."

Another pause. " _No. No I am not, young speaker. Open the door._ "

" _Since I heard you talking about eating humans, I don't think that's a good idea._ " said Harry, beginning to back away.

" _I would not eat a speaker. They are rare. They are powerful_." the voice responded, quickly and angrily.

Harry edged towards the door. As insane as it seemed, he believed the voice. He also felt a powerful curiosity, a pull. He reached out his hand, and twisted the door knob. It was locked. Harry pulled out his wand, and attempted to unlock it, but it was to no avail.  
" _It's locked._ " he said.

" _I thought so._ " said the voice, sounding particularly menacing. " _No matter. My Master approaches."  
_  
" _Your Master?_ "

Harry stood bolt upright and away from the door. Just as he did so, a man strode around the corner, towards him. For a moment, it seemed the man hadn't noticed him, but then he lifted his head and narrowed his eyes.  
It was the Dark Lord. Harry's heart beat faster, as he rushed to make his explanations.  
"I'm sorry, my Lord. I didn't know these were your rooms." Harry stammered, thanking the fates that his glamour remained in place. That was, if he got away alive.  
Voldemort held up a hand to silence him, and Harry felt himself be pushed back against the wall. Panic bolted through his body; adrenaline tingled in his fingers. He didn't dare go for his wand. He would die, he knew.

"Why are you here, boy? Why do you disguise yourself?"

Harry, completely unable to coherently form a response, stumbled over his words. Voldemort eased the force holding him to the wall, letting it go as he glared at Harry.  
"I… I heard a noise. Please. I'm sorry for disturbing you. I'll just go." Harry began to back away, and the Dark Lord appeared to be dismissing him. Perhaps thinking him just some fool, beneath his notice. He probably would have gotten away from the powerful man easily too, if not for the traitorous voice behind the door.

" _He's a speaker, Master. He's speaks our language. He's a Parselmouth!_ "

Harry paused long enough only to see those cold blue eyes meet his. Confused as he was, he was running long before Voldemort raised his wand.


	8. The Snake Escape

**31st October 1995**

Harry threw himself around the first tight corner of the corridor, just as a suspiciously bright red spell smashed into the wall ahead of him. He didn't pause to assess the damage, for fear he would just be frightened into stillness by it.  
Harry had no time to consider what had just happened. He didn't have time to question the revelation that he was a Parselmouth, or even why every instinct in his body had told him to run just then. He knew very little about Parselmouths, except that the Dark Lord was supposedly the last of them. A small, logical voice in the back of his mind told him that it shouldn't be possible; his parents had no direct relation to Slytherin – carrier of the gene – and he had seen a few snakes as a child, and never conversed with them. Nevertheless, he couldn't risk explaining that to Voldemort. Not now, anyway.

Harry barreled into the first room he saw. He blew open the first door on the left, incinerating the old oak frame and bolting through the room inside. He barely noticed the small lounge area, or the portraits of the Malfoy ancestors, gasping at his dramatic entrance. He merely ran through it – hopping a small table – and wrenched open another door.  
Into another room he went. This room appeared to be some sort of small office, but he paid no attention. He ran through it, and into another, and another, until he ran out of doors to blow down. There had been no real plan to this method, except the plan all raw panic creates. He had merely hoped to outrun Voldemort, but of course, that was ridiculous.

In a last ditch attempt to save his skin, Harry flung open a nearby cupboard door, and sat down inside it. He waved his wand, shutting himself within and locking it. He knew there was little point in sealing the door this way, but it gave him some modicum of security. He sat, crouched in the darkness of the closet, and took quick and shallow breaths.

He was quite sure that he was going to die.

One did not run from the Dark Lord. One did not rip apart Malfoy Manor as one fled the Dark Lord. One certainly didn't suddenly learn an ancient language, and have conversations with the Dark Lord's snake. It wasn't as if Voldemort was known for his patience, and his enemies very rarely were taken to trial.  
Harry, out of habit, clutched his familiar locket close to his chest. He was curled in on himself, running his hands over the engraved S. Over many years of wearing the thing, Harry had come to believe that it was lucky.  
The reasons for this had started out small, and it had taken him a long time to notice any link the events had to his protective locket. Harry seemed to heal faster, and remember things for longer. In a duel, his wand seemed to find his opponents more easily, to anticipate their moves more readily. Now and again, hexes and curses had simply bounced off him, without even the need to cast a shield charm. Harry hadn't really attributed this to the locket though, having never really dueled or used magic before he began to wear it. The shielding was unusual, of course, but maybe the spells were just weak or badly cast.

That was, until the locket had began to speak to him.

Faint at first; incoherent whispers, and half-forgotten conversations from dreams. Harry had thought he was going crazy. He had thought he was turning even crazier when the voice became more insistent, speaking in a strange language he couldn't understand. Over time, however, the voice appeared to learn English. The conversations they had were only ever dream-like, and only when Harry was in great pain or danger, but he had grown to believe that the locket was indeed some sort of sentient being. He had also realised that taking it off would be difficult; the locket had punished him with a searing pain when he attempted to remove it. He had wondered if it were Bellatrix's idea.  
More often than not, he pretended not to have the strange connection with the ancient jewelry. However, he had never felt more willing to believe in the strange power of the thing, than he did now. Crouched in the darkness of the cupboard, his heart racing, he whispered hurriedly to the locket.

"Please." he whispered, quickly. He could hear something exploding in a not-too-distant room. "Please hide me."  
The noises were getting closer. He heard a bang, of what he assumed was one of the few doors he'd left intact being blown to bits.  
"Please." he tried. "Please, whatever you are, please. I don't want to die. I don't want to be found."  
There was no response from the locket, and indeed, it remained curiously cold against his chest. He wanted to shout at the thing. He wanted to beg, to cry, but then he'd be overheard.  
"Hide me!" he whispered, urgently.  
The noise must have alerted the Dark Lord, who had evidently entered the room of the closet now. Harry heard footsteps approach, saw the shadow beneath the door, and watched in horror as the door was flung open to reveal him.

* * *

It had taken Voldemort several moments to digest what Nagini had told him about the blonde wizard. This was irksome in itself, as he prided himself on having an agile mind, and world-renowned reflexes. Yet, in this case, he would not berate himself for his slow understanding. What Nagini had said was just too ridiculous - too unbelievable - to react immediately.  
There could not be another Parselmouth in existence. It was virtually impossible. Voldemort, from the days when he had been merely Tom Riddle, had searched out the myths, legends and histories attached to those who spoke to snakes. He recalled every painstaking measure he had taken to follow the genealogies of the ancient Parselmouths. Years of research; months of mapping and tracking, of old blood rituals and new spells. All of it to see if there was another alive that could claim to be the heir of Slytherin.  
It had been necessary, of course. So many of his defenses, his security measures, and even his unique repertoire of spells, relied on the fact that he alone could speak Parseltongue. The Chamber of Secrets itself, where after the war he had begun storing much of his most prized possessions and most sinister weapons, could be easily opened by anyone with Slytherin's gift.

A large part of him thought that Nagini must have been mistaken. Perhaps he had left her alone too often, or she had eaten some mouse that had consumed a dangerous potion recently. But he had to be sure. As soon as he had gathered his considerable wits, he had raised his wand and began to turn towards the wizard. He had taken little notice of him before now, assuming him to be some drunken fool in need of a crucio, to be hanging around his quarters unaware. In his stupor, he hadn't noticed the man turn tail and begin to run. Voldemort cursed loudly as the man rounded a corner, and his stunning spell slammed into the wall opposite.  
Voldemort had no desire to kill him as of yet. He was too curious. If the man had managed to trick his snake, for what purpose had he done so? And if he was indeed a speaker, then who was he? Who were his ancestors, to give him the gift Voldemort knew should be his alone?

Voldemort had pursued the man, chuckling to himself as he ran into a nearby room. There were anti-apparition wards encompassing Malfoy Manor, and it was just a matter of minutes before he'd trap himself. Almost lazily, Voldemort had followed, following the wake of destruction in the wizard's path.  
He tsked audibly at the mess the man was leaving behind. It was hardly clever to leave such an obvious trail for him to follow, and he'd be disappointed if this man turned out to be some distant kin, as he could not even evade capture briefly. From room to room he followed, a kick of adrenaline flooding his veins. As unemotional as he was, he loved the thrill of the chase. He loved the feeling of closing in on a worthy prey. He needed to capture the man now, before he could find some way of escaping. Voldemort had seen that the man wore a glamour, and wouldn't recognize him on sight again. Such a slip would be inexcusable.

Finally, he came to a room with no exit door. He grinned lazily as he entered the room, and raised his wand. A light green light appeared before the door of a nearby cupboard. The man was trapped.  
Prepared to confront the man, to punish him for trying to escape the Dark Lord, he flicked his wand and pulled open the closet door.

His grin turned to a violent grimace. There was nothing within.

* * *

**1st November 1995**

The next morning, Harry woke with a very dry mouth and a pounding headache. He groaned, turning over on the bed he had somehow found his way into, and stretched. His right hand came into contact with something fleshy and solid.

"Ow." muttered a sleepy, agitated voice. "Will you watch it, Potter?"

Harry groggily opened his eyes, taking in the scene around him. He was fully dressed, with just his top buttons undone, and laid beneath a pile of thick, duck-feather quilts in the huge bed that was Draco's. Next to him, a very tired looking Draco was also sprawled across the bed, but he'd somehow had the faculties to put on pyjamas. Across the bottom of the bed, wearing just boxers and a t-shirt, was the still sleeping form of Blaise.  
Harry, half-amused by their current sleeping arrangements, sat up and yawned.

"How does this always seem to happen?" he asked, as Blaise stirred.

"Because when you drink, you always seem to commandeer my bed." muttered a grumpy Draco, muffled by the silky green pillows that littered the bed.

"Your bed is the most comfortable." said Blaise, also sitting up and stretching. "Although I have no idea how I got here."

Draco, seemingly giving up on sleep, also sat up. "You got here when you fell asleep on the floor of the lounge. I could only levitate you so far."

"And my trousers?" asked Blaise, a little perplexed. He wasn't often a drunk, but when he was, he was a pretty entertaining one.

"Some dare you had with the elder Greengrass. I do believe you and her hit it off last night." answered Draco.

Blaise adopted an embarrassed look, and coughed into his fist, awkwardly. Harry started giggling at this, until Blaise answered by batting him heavily with a pillow.  
"All in bed together, and having a pillow fight." came an amused, feminine voice from the doorway. All three of them jumped, surprised. "If I weren't otherwise informed, I'd think I were interrupting something."  
Daphne Greengrass stood in the entrance of the room, wearing a silky green robe that clung to her figure. Her blonde hair was a little mussed from sleep, but otherwise, she looked far more put together than the three of them did.  
"Blaise." she said, expectantly. Slowly, the boy turned to her, looking more flustered than Harry had every seen him before. "I'm going to go get ready for breakfast now. I'd like you to join me, so be ready in half an hour. My Father will be dining with us."  
Blaise nodded, and paled considerably as she left the room.

"What's wrong?" asked Harry, a little bemused by the exchange.

"I... Well, you see." began Blaise. Draco, too, was giving him an odd look. "I believe I may have proposed to Miss Greengrass last night."

"You did what?!" exclaimed Draco, obviously shocked. "How on earth? And what did she say? I didn't know you had any plans to wed the Greengrass girl."

Blaise shrugged, awkwardly. "I didn't. I mean, I wouldn't have dared with all the suitors she had, but…" he trailed off, clearly embarrassed by something.

Harry, ever the quick one, caught on. "You took one of Hermione's sweets, didn't you? The one's that cause boldness."

Blaise nodded, and Draco shook his head, amazed.  
"Well, what did she say?" asked Draco,

"She said yes." said Blaise, a wry smile crossing his lips at this.

A moment passed, before Harry clapped him on the back. "Well, that's what you wanted, right? Congratulations."

Blaise nodded, and Draco seemed to come back to himself after a moment. "Well." drawled the blonde. "She's a good match; pureblood, wealthy, well bred, and beautiful. It isn't unusual, for women of her station to be engaged at fifteen."

Blaise offered a rare grin. "I'm aware of that." The grin dropped slightly, into a worried look. "Although, now I have to ask her father."

Draco nodded seriously. With purebloods, tradition was everything.  
"You should speak to him alone, and be as formal as possible. Ask for her hand in marriage. Don't be alarmed if he doesn't say yes, right away. He'll have to consider your lineage, estates, et cetera. She is his oldest child. His heir if they don't have any boys, which seems unlikely at this point."  
Blaise nodded, a serious man by all accounts, and knew well enough that marriage was partly a business partnership.

After a few minutes of pep talk from Draco, Blaise left to get ready for breakfast with his new fiancé. Harry was still reeling at the possibility of his friend being engaged, but Draco had now taken the news in his stride. He supposed this sort of paced relationship was a lot more expected for him.

"She's a clever girl, Daphne." said Draco, thoughtfully. "Blaise is rich, sensible, and clearly dotes on her. She was wise to snap up his offer this way."

Harry nodded, although he knew Draco was mostly talking to himself. "I just hope she can grow to care for him." said Harry.

Draco met Harry's eyes, and then nodded. "Yes. Marriages in our circles are rarely love matches, but I'll be pleased if they can grow to care for each other."  
Harry nodded. There was a long silence, and Harry conjured a hangover potion, gulping it down as Draco called an elf up to the room.  
"Dobby, what are the arrangements for breakfasting today?" asked Draco, as he stood up from the bed.

"It is being served in the dining room, master. Mistress has asked that all of yous comes down for it, sir." said the simpering elf.

"The dining room?" Draco narrowed his eyes. "Why on earth? How many people stayed last night?"

Harry knew the 'luncheon room' the Malfoys usually used for breakfast could adequately fit thirty people. The dining room was much bigger.  
"About fifty or so, sir." said Dobby, in a small voice. "Master Lucius's Master has said that no one is to be leaving the Manor yet."

"The Dark Lord?" asked Draco, paling. "The Dark Lord has prevented people leaving?"  
Harry, who had been only lazily watching the interaction, suddenly stood up. He too, had turned very pale.

Last night, after the unlikely chase with the Dark Lord, Harry had sat alone in the cupboard for a while. He had listened to his own rapid breathing until it calmed, considerably. The Dark Lord had looked at Harry – looked directly at where he was squatting in the little cupboard – and yet his eyes had seemed to look through him entirely. The powerful Wizard had cast many a spell on the cupboard; spells that would have stripped away any charm or device designed to hide his presence, and yet, Harry had remained undetected. By the time the Dark Lord has stormed away, his aura visibly darkened with rage at Harry's evasion, Harry was staring at his locket in amazement. It had worked. It had hidden him. This was by far the most complex magic the thing had ever done to protect him, and it both fascinated and terrified Harry.

When the locket had first begun to behave strangely; when it had began to whisper to him at night, talking disjointedly of strange things, Harry had begun to research the protective amulets that could control magic. He had dug into ancient texts, and complex magical theories, all in the hopes of finding out why the thing seemed to have a life of its own. No matter where he looked, however, there was no indication of a talisman ever behaving as his did.  
The things the locket spoke of varied wildly. Sometimes, it spoke of a forest. Sometimes about spells, ancient magic, people. Once, it even muttered incoherently about a cave, an orphan, and a ritual gone awry. These mutterings were infrequent, perhaps once every few months, and only in the dead of night when Harry was alone. The only time the locket had ever seemed aware of him was when Harry had been gravely injured in a duel with a particularly brutish seventh year Ravenclaw. Harry had been a third year at the time, and the Ravenclaw had caught him unawares in a corridor. The boy had been jealous of Harry, of his prodigious skill, and had been ready to exact bitter revenge. It was the locket that had told him how to wandlessly break the bonds; told him the exact spell to use as revenge. The boy had never been quite the same again, after that. This had unnerved Harry, but the locket had gone quiet for a long time after, and he had put it to the back of his mind. He chose not to think on the strange object; there were many weird happenings in the Wizarding world.  
Last night, however, had been something else entirely. Harry had vowed to research the talisman more thoroughly than ever, once he was back at Hogwarts.

His most pressing concern now, was Voldemort. Before he had left the cupboard, he had removed the glamours that changed his hair and eye colour, and darkened his skin. The potion that had aged him had worn off soon after, and gone was the broad, handsome man in his early twenties. Harry Potter was back to his slightly scrawnier, slightly lankier fifteen-year old self. He had made his way directly back to the party in Draco's room, only to find Krum and his entourage had already left. Draco had demanded to know what had taken Harry so long, but he had claimed to have gotten lost. Draco was too drunk at the time to question it. Harry had thrown himself back into the spirit of the party. He didn't want to think about his newly discovered ability, or the anger of the Dark Lord. He did what Harry did best – pretended it wasn't happening.

Draco, upon dismissing the elf, turned back to Harry looking deeply concerned.  
"He must be angry. This isn't good. Not at all." Draco began digging through his drawers, looking for something to wear. He tossed some robes at Harry, which Harry changed into without question. He just hoped that there was no way Voldemort would guess that he was the man from last night.

A tight knot of dread developed in the pit of his stomach, and anxiety brought the headache back with a vengeance.

* * *

Lounging across a plush armchair, Lord Voldemort scowled at the ceiling. He was alone in the small sitting room he had chosen for his inquiry, and an untouched breakfast of steak and eggs sat on the table nearby. It was his favourite breakfast meal, which the Malfoy's always prepared for him upon his visits. Today, however, he had absolutely no appetite.  
He had been up all night, rifling through books on magical ancestry in the Malfoy Library. They had a well-stocked collection, but he was already familiar with every book they had on the subject. Voldemort had checked again, just to be absolutely sure that there was nothing he had missed. There wasn't. There had not been a Parselmouth outside the Gaunt line in over six hundred years. Frustrated and unable to get a moment of sleep, he had spent the night pacing his rooms.  
After the man's impossible disappearance, Voldemort had been forced to accept that there was some strange magic at work. Who had the talent to escape from him, right beneath his nose? He had seen in Nagini's memory, that the man had indeed spoke Parseltongue. He had also seen, however, that the man appeared to not know he was speaking it. This, he knew from the ancient books in the Chamber of Secrets, was common in young speakers. Before Parselmouths reached their majority, they often found it difficult to differentiate between it and their mother tongue, especially in the company of another speaker or snake. This was doubly unusual, given the young man appeared to be at least twenty-five.

Before dawn had even broken, Voldemort had summoned Lucius to his quarters. He had read his servant's mind, and found no memory of the man. Of course, the wizard had been wearing a glamour, so this was expected. After this fruitless mind reading, he had ordered Malfoy to close down the wards around Malfoy Manor. No one would be leaving the vicinity without being subject to his questioning. No one had left it since last night, either. Whomever had evaded capture last night would not manage to do so again. Or at least, he hoped so, given he had no idea how the man had disappeared the first time.  
He allowed the people to breakfast in peace, while he considered his approach to the matter. He knew his hosts were very tense, concerned that his dark mood might result in pain or bloodshed. It might. He finally decided to interview the people at the party individually, possibly using leglimency if they seemed a likely candidate.  
He instructed Lucius to bring him the males first. While a gender-changing potion was a possibility, they were notoriously unstable, so it seemed unlikely that his wizard was a witch.

Two hours later, and Voldemort was growing incredibly frustrated. Not only was delving into the minds of these nitwits proving to be numbingly dull, it was also completely futile. Not one of the adult wizards he had questioned knew anything about the events of last night. Voldemort, never a patient man, had ended up cursing a few of them for their bumbling idiocy and insolence.  
He had no further luck with any of the more promising women, either. All of them had spent the entire night in the parlour with Lucius and Narcissa, never being away from the group for longer than a few minutes.  
Voldemort sat back in his chair, dismissing the simpering society bint at his feet. He growled, shattering a nearby crystal glass with the weight of his anger. He called Lucius back into the room.

"Is there no one else?" he demanded, barely concealing his rage. Lucius seemed to be favouring one arm, so he could certainly feel his mood through the mark.

"Just the children, my lord." Lucius responded, bowing his head subserviently.

Voldemort scoffed, about to dismiss the man, before reconsidering. "Children?" he questioned silkily.

Lucius seemed uncomfortable with this line of questioning. "My son had some of his friends stay, last night. But I doubt they would do anything traitorous against you, my Lord."

Voldemort waved his hand, disregarding the man's concerns or opinions. "And how old is your son now, Lucius?"

"Fifteen, my lord."

Voldemort nodded. It didn't seem likely that it was a child in disguise last night, and he almost disregarded the idea completely. But he remembered his self at that age, remembered how often he was able to escape notice for his crimes, because people assumed a boy of that age wasn't capable of them. It was a very long shot, but he could spare some time for the possibility.

"Fetch me the children. We'll start with your boy."

He doubted that it was the Malfoy boy, who'd never been of noticeable talent, but he liked the way the statement made Lucius squirm. He obeyed, of course. He always had.

* * *

Harry stood awkwardly with Draco, Blaise, Theodore, and Viktor. They were in one of the many lounge areas that the expansive manor offered; they had been shepherded in here half an hour before by a flustered Lucius. Unaware of what was happening, the group had sat in anxious silence as Draco was escorted away. Draco had returned moments earlier, and Vladimir – Krum's friend from last night – had been taken in his stead.

"What's happening?" asked Blaise, barely disguising his concern.

"I'm not sure." said Draco, seriously. "The Dark Lord called me into the sitting room. He asked me questions about last night, about anything suspicious I might have heard or seen. Of course, I couldn't think of anything…"  
At this, Draco shot Blaise a guilty look. Blaise raised an eyebrow at this, nonplussed.  
"Well," continued Draco. "He read my mind. All I could think of was your confession last night, and the subsequent announcement."

Blaise flushed with embarrassment and anger. "You told the Dark Lord about me and Daphne?" he hissed.

"I couldn't help it!" responded Draco, indignantly.

"Announcement?" questioned Viktor, confused.

Harry was only half listening to the conversation. He was too busy panicking; his mind racing to find a solution where he wouldn't have to face the Dark Lord. He knew nothing about occlumency; he'd tried to learn it in his fourth year, but was abysmal. Even his Light Arts professor, Professor Crouch, had told him to give it up as a bad job. He considered his options, as Blaise explained his haphazard proposal and was largely congratulated.  
There was nothing. There was no way he could get out of this. The best he could hope for was that the Dark Lord would get bored before it was his turn, or Lucius would forget about his insignificant half-blood guest. It didn't seem likely.

Mere minutes later, Lucius returned with Vladimir. Vladimir immediately shot Harry an apologetic look. Harry's blood turned to ice. Of course, Vladimir had seen Harry in his glamour last night. He'd known who he was beneath it.  
Confirming his terrified suspicions, a very dark looking Lucius summoned Harry. Draco, not noticing Harry's obvious fear, wished him luck. Like a man going to his death, Harry followed Lucius. He resolved to lie. It was a terrible plan, but it was the only option he had. Maybe if he was convincing enough, Voldemort would not read his mind.  
Moments later, Harry was gently pushed through the doors of the sitting room, and before the Dark Lord.

With thick brunette hair, startling blue eyes, and aristocratic features, Voldemort was an incredibly handsome man. There were books written on his flawless beauty, his charm and his grace. Perhaps if he were any other man with that face, Harry – who had always been drawn to powerful men – would have been attracted to him. As it was now, the face was eliciting such an animal feeling of terror, that he couldn't begin to think on his beauty. He merely stared, doe-eyed, at the man who had conquered the Wizarding world.

"My Lord." he said, respectfully. He approached him, and bowed, but did not meet his eyes. Said eyes were currently surveying him with a hungry interest. Harry resisted the urge to shiver.

"Harry, isn't it?" he asked. "Harry Potter?"

"Yes, my Lord." he responded, keeping his voice as neutral as possible. On any other day, it would be an honour for the Dark Lord to know his name. Today, it was merely gut-wrenching.

"I've heard of you." said Voldemort, sitting back, and observing him like he was a prize hippogriff. "You're quite the dueller. You were mentioned to me a few times, in reports from Hogwarts."

Harry didn't say anything, but his eyes flicked up to meet Voldemort's, before going back to the floor. Voldemort seemed to be daring him to speak, but Harry wasn't stupid. He was struck by the sudden image of being confronted with a snake that was ready to strike.  
"I've heard of you too." he said weakly, after a tense moment. It was an attempt at humour, but it came out too strangled to be funny.

Voldemort considered him for a moment longer, and then stood up suddenly. The tall wizard towered above Harry, even more so than he had last night.  
"Where were you yesterday evening, Harry?" asked the powerful wizard, his voice low and serious.

"With my friends, my Lord." he answered quickly, never taking his eyes from a point on the floor.

"The entire evening?" questioned Voldemort.

"Yes, sir." he lied. "Except when I went to get something for Krum."

He imagined that Vladimir had already revealed this information, and didn't want to cause more suspicion.  
"I see. And did you take any interesting detours?" hissed Voldemort. Harry glanced up to see his eyes were flashing dangerously. This time, he couldn't follow his compulsion to run.

"No, sir." answered Harry, knowing that the Dark Lord didn't believe him.

"I see. So you're not the man who had a conversation with my snake last night? You're not the mysterious little Parselmouth that ran from his Lord?" The question was angry, as if Voldemort already knew the truth, and just wanted to make him say it.

"No, my Lord." Harry quaked. "I… I'm not a Parselmouth, my Lord." He tried to say this earnestly. He'd had no idea he was until last night, after all.

"I find that very hard to believe, Mr Potter." Suddenly, the Dark Lord seized Harry by the neck, grabbing the hairs at the base of his skull and forcing Harry to look into his eyes. The blue was flashing an eery red, and Harry couldn't help but whimper at the intimidating sight.

"You see, my little traitor." Voldemort hissed. "We are speaking Parseltongue right now."


	9. A Lesson In Vulnerability

**1st November 1995**

Harry stared up into the icy blue eyes of Lord Voldemort, his whole body frozen in position; chin high, wincing, the grip on Harry's hair forcing him to his tiptoes. He was terrified, but Harry was far too clever to resist or flee. Even if he could somehow escape the Dark Lord – an impossible feat in itself – it would only serve to make a dead man walking. Disobedience in Voldemort's regime was rectified swiftly, bloodily.  
Voldemort, by contrast, had quickly seemed to find calm. This did not make his sculpted features seem any less intimidating, however, as his snarling, glaring expression settled into that of cold calculation. The wizard released Harry. He instinctually raised a hand to rub away the throbbing pain at the base of his neck, but his hand quickly fell as Voldemort instead ceased him by the collar of his dress-shirt. Voldemort – taller and far stronger than his own scrawny, fifteen year old self – easily held Harry at arms length. The older man's cool, intelligent eyes ran over him, assessing. After a long moment, the Dark Lord's face settled into a sneer.

" _I expected you to be older._ " the Dark Lord said finally, dropping his grip on Harry forcefully. Unable to regain his balance fast enough, Harry fell to the ground heavily. Wincing, he dared to glance up. Voldemort's sneer had only deepened; his handsome face contorted, making him seem particularly menacing.  
Harry didn't quite trust himself to speak. He was too afraid to open his mouth, given that he seemed to be accidentally speaking an ancient language, completely unaware. One look at the expression on his Lord's face, however, forced stumbling words from him.

" _My Lord, I… I assure you-"_  he paused. This time, some subconscious part of him had tried listening to the words he was actually saying. He surprised himself back into a shocked silence; he was hissing! He could hear himself, hear the strange words and rasping inflections. How had he not noticed before?  
Voldemort eyed him critically. Harry had risen a hand to his throat, massaging his neck as if it would prevent the strange language from spilling out against his will.

The plush carpet of the sitting room was welcome for Harry, given the awkwardness of how he was now sat on the floor. He didn't take his eyes from Voldemort, but neither did he meet his eyes directly. Harry tried not to think about what the thoughtful, callous expression on the older man's pale face meant for him.  
"I am astounded -" began the Dark Lord, "That you, an unworthy child – a half-blood – has been given the gifts of Salazar Slytherin."  
Harry, listening intently, thought Voldemort was probably speaking English now. Tentatively, he began to speak.

"My Lord, I don't know how or why this happened." Harry had begun the sentence unsurely, but more confidently when he realised that he too had returned to English.

Voldemort rolled his eyes. He took a casual step towards Harry, looming over him ominously. Harry resisted the urge to flinch, but his fear must have been obvious because a cruel smile played across the dark lips of the older wizard.  
" _Are you afraid, little one?_ " Voldemort jeered, his eyes flashing ominously. His expression amused, but without warmth. He vaguely registered the return of the strange hissing.

Harry bit down on his own tongue as he began to protest this. A primal part of him wanted to refute his claims, to be brave, to protest his innocence. He wasn't, however, a moron. Voldemort had no respect for Gryffindor brashness, and had famously little patience for those who didn't offer him utmost obedience.  
" _Did you hear me?_ " repeated Voldemort, a frosty smirk marring his handsome features. " _Are you scared, of how I might punish your flagrant disobedience?"_  the last words were hissed ominously. Harry's pulse quickened considerably, which didn't seem possible, given it was already hammering in his chest.

"I'm not a traitor." Harry had wanted the words to sound strong, and reassuring. His voice had cracked on the final word, however, and it had merely sounded like the cries of a frightened child. He suppose it was, and the part of him that held his self to a rigorous emotional standard, railed against him. He cursed himself for his fear of this man. He cursed himself for making the situation worse.

"No?" asked Voldemort, who was slowly raising his wand. Harry knew that this was a blatant intimidation technique, and it was working perfectly. He was terrified. "And do you think, little one, that it is permissible to run from me? Do you think the little trick you pulled last night was how I expect a loyal follower to behave?" the words were in such a sickly sweet tone of voice, and so threatening, that Harry immediately shuck his head vehemently.

"No. It wasn't-" He began. He was quickly cut off.

"What were you doing outside my quarters, last night?" Voldemort hissed, impatiently.

"Nothing!" Harry insisted. "I was lost, and-"  
Whatever he had just been thinking was completely blown away by the next word that came from the Dark Lords mouth. Harry doubled over, clutching his thigh miserably, as a sharp yelp left his throat unbidden.

'Lashius' was a spell that Harry was very familiar with. It was used often as a punishment at Hogwarts, mostly against the lazy or stupid children. Harry, being neither of those things (well, perhaps lazy, but raw talent could go a long ways in disguising that), hadn't felt the effects too often. It mimicked the effect of a leather strap against bare skin. It was a nasty little spell, but effective. It left no marks, had no permanent damage, and served well to get his attention when it had ever wandered in Bellatrix's lessons. This, however, was different. He could literally feel the difference in how powerful the spell was, and this time, the pain was enough to draw a gasp and several ragged breaths from him.

"I will ask you again," came the too calm voice of the Dark Lord. "Why were you outside my rooms last night?"

"I was exploring." Harry said, desperately. "Honestly, my Lord, I- I didn't even know they were your rooms. I just, I was just looking around."

Voldemort watched him, considering. "And how long have you known you were a Parselmouth?"

"Just since last night." Harry answered, quickly. He sat up a little straighter on the carpet, trying not to openly nurse the skin where the spell had struck moments before. It wouldn't welt, of course, but it felt like it already had. "I didn't know that what I was talking to was a snake, at the time."

The Dark Lord's expression remained neutral, but he paused. Harry took this to mean he had been believed, and breathed a small sigh of relief. Voldemort's sharp eyes found his.  
"Last night. When you were hiding from me -" he said this as though Harry should be deeply, deeply ashamed of this. Harry did in fact feel cowed, and wondered how he could have ever thought running from this man would end well. "- You hid yourself. How?"

"I don't know-" he began to answer, but his words ended with another strangled cry. Then another. Then another.  
Harry was doubled over in pain. Tears had come to his eyes, and he was gasping softly. When he spoke, his voice sounded unsteady. He didn't recognise it.  
"Please." he implored, desperately. "Please, I don't know. I really don't know!"

Voldemort's violently red eyes bore into his own frightened green ones, and his whole body felt coiled tight as a spring. He was braced for another lash, but none came. Instead, Voldemort's eyes slowly returned to their moderately less frightening blue. His anger looked to be replaced with mere frustration.

It wasn't as if Harry was going to start babbling about his insane theories about a talking locket. He had almost suggested it, theorised that it was the locket that had hidden him, but one look at the stormy expression of the man stilled his tongue. He couldn't seriously tell the leader of Wizarding Europe (and shortly America, according to the Prophet), that he thought his talisman – an innocuous object in itself, many people through history having worn them for training purposes - was somehow protecting him from harm. Even if this particular talisman had been worn by Slytherin, it seemed beyond comprehension that it would have the ability to perform impossible magic, thousands of years after his death.

Voldemort sat back down. He was looking towards, but seemingly through, him. Harry dare not move from his point on the floor. He felt vaguely humiliated to be kneeling submissively at someone's feet, but not so humiliated that he'd risk his life by standing before being ordered to. He worried his bottom lip, and was struck by how young he felt. Amongst his friends, and other Hogwarts students, he would never let anyone push him around. He was the best dueller Hogwarts had seen in years, and he was clever and powerful and popular.. He'd certainly never allow himself to be made to feel so very small. Yet here, at the mercy of the Dark Lord's wrath, he felt very like the naive teenager he actually was. He didn't like the feeling at all. As much as the orphanages he'd grown up in were decent, and he'd had friends, they quickly taught you a certain hardness. In any institution, without the unconditional love of a parent, one became at least a little hardened. How could you not? If another boy picked on you, who's arms do you find comfort in? If you have a nightmare, who can you crawl into bed with? Harry only knew this about himself through an uncomfortable amount of introspection, but it had given him a real aversion to vulnerability.

Voldemort's eyes focused back to Harry. They were blank now; part of the same neutral mask Harry had become accustomed to the few times he had seen the Dark Lord, whether in the flesh or in print.

"I am going to take you to my home," said Voldemort, very calmly. The threat was gone from his voice now, but there was an absolute authority to the way he spoke. He was a man very used to being obeyed, and Harry didn't want to challenge that habit. "Where I am going to question you with veritaserum. If what you have said is true, then you have nothing to fear," he said this as though he'd already presumed this wasn't the case. "If you have lied to me, then I will execute you, and hang your corpse from the Hogwarts Astronomy Tower as a warning to any who might think to copy you."

He spoke the threat so matter-of-factly that Harry briefly wondered if he'd heard him correctly. He had known the Dark Lord was cold blooded, had executed thousands in his rise to power, but he had never expected anyone could be unemotional when contemplating murder. In Harry's mind, murders happened when a party was angry. That was understandable, in a sense, how one could kill when tensions got high. He'd been in many an impassioned state in duels, and it made sense how in a war, one could take that passion to the point of death. Yet, Harry had to bite back a shiver at the thought of this man ending his life, with the same apathetic expression, like taking his life were as simple as swatting a fly.

"You're going to be at my property for at least the next twenty-four hours, so go ready an overnight-bag. If you run," Voldemort paused significantly, eyeing him. "I'll assume you were lying to me, and act accordingly."  
Harry nodded. He rose to his feet, bowed, and fled the room.

Could today get any worse?

* * *

Voldemort watched the boy go, his eyes following the child's frightened departure dispassionately. This was a problem. An unforeseen, difficult problem. He allowed himself a rare sound of exasperation and sat back in the arm chair. Wandlessly and non-verbally, he locked the doors to the sitting room. He had no desire to speak to his servants now, and definitely not to look upon the obsequious form of Lucius Malfoy.  
There were two things that could come from his discussion with the boy. Either the boy was lying, and his strange abilities were somehow linked to the ever resilient rebel armies; their underground militia trying – albeit feebly – to strike against him. In that case, Voldemort would kill him and make an example of him. He wondered, though, if this would make any difference. He didn't doubt that the child could be lying. He remembered how easily he had formed the Death Eaters right under the long nose of Albus Dumbeldore, at the tender age of sixteen, little older than the Potter boy was now. The light side could usually be relied upon to underestimate the vast majority of their enemies until it was too late.  
The second option was that the boy was telling the truth. That he had been unaware of his ability to speak Parseltongue, and possession of odd magical gifts. That would suggest that he was likely somehow – and the link would have to be very tenuous, as he knew the bloodlines very well – related to Salazar Slytherin, and in possession of his gifts. That would make the Potter boy another Slytherin heir, secondary to himself as he was younger, but an heir all the same. Being a descendent of one of the founders mattered little outside Hogwarts, but the magical power that usually went along with that bloodline could prove tricky.

Voldemort supposed it came down to what he wanted. He needed capable servants, he wanted his people to prosper. The whole point of taking over the magical world – other than that he was naturally inclined to seek power – had been to restore it to it's former glory. He had successfully wiped the muggle stains from the face of magical Britain, and now, the children of the revolution were thriving. Perhaps gifted children were the natural outcome of removing muggle influences, and providing an education far superior to what he had received in the old world. Still, Voldemort wondered as he glared at the ornate ceiling decorations, was he willing to risk nurturing a rival in his own back yard?  
Voldemort snorted derisively at this thought, realising he was being rather presumptuous to think the Potter boy was anywhere near his level of power or genius. The boy had looked ready to cry by the time he left, and had reacted so terribly to the little lashing spell. Really, the boy should have been grateful he hadn't used the cruciatus curse. It was a thousand times more painful, and could have serious long-term effects. That was exactly why Voldemort hadn't used it; he had no desire to cripple one of Hogwarts star pupils, as he might just be innocent. Voldemort was building an army, and he couldn't break every child that showed any promise, if he wanted said army to function.

The function of the army was a matter in itself. Not only was Voldemort on the verge of finally toppling the resistance from magical America, he was also quelling the recent fires of resistance on his own turf. Older muggleborns, escapees from the final days of the last wizarding war, and British wizards that had been blessedly away from English soil during said war. They were not many, but neither had the Death Eaters been many. Voldemort was being vigilant, careful to keep those threats at bay. The best thing about being a dictator was that he didn't have to bother with all the red tape when he suspected someone might be working against him - he just killed them - he was a fucking Dark Lord, it was in his job description.  
America was taking longer than he'd anticipated. As he'd long ago predicted, the middle east had caused some problems for him over the last few years. Arabic magic was tricky. The nature of the spells they used, and the effects they had, could be very different to their latin 'equivalents'. As such, counter-spells were more haphazard and he'd lost some good fighters to the battles there. Eventually though, the middle east had been subdued. They'd had enough middle eastern people willingly come to his side – particularly the witches, who were strangely oppressed in that part of the world, despite the magical world being generally less sexist than the muggle equivalent – and they had defeated their opposition. That had been little over a year ago, and now America was on it's last legs. As he spoke, Bellatrix was in Texas, sent to seek out and eliminate the Head Wizard from his hiding place. The coward hadn't been seen in public for years now.

Voldemort stood up, stretched, and unlocked the door with a lazy hand gesture. He had been subjected to this ridiculous social event for too long now, and he tired of it. His only reason for attending had been the unique nature of the masquerade ball. It had been an opportunity for him to keep his ear to the ground, to find out what his people were thinking about. Overwhelmingly, they were thinking about nothing relevant. They were thinking about who was marrying whom, and who was secretly whom's mistress. They were thinking about who had gotten fat, and who had gotten rich. Some of the greasier old men in the crowd were largely thinking about the recently seventeen-year old girls that had blossomed since the last Halloween party. Those types, Voldemort had avoided entirely. His sexual taste was unusual, probably quite immoral, but he had never understood the fascination that many had with innocent, virginal young men and women. Fresh out of Hogwarts and naive, they couldn't possibly be fun to play with. They were too fragile for a true power play, too young to walk the sharp edges of passions blade. They were boring. Most people were boring, in fact, even those old enough to have a wealth of experience. He suspected the attraction rested on the fact that these weak old witches and wizards did not have any inherent power themselves. They needed to take it, instead, from others. Vulnerable young people, being their only societally acceptable output. People really were quite vulgar.  
When Voldemort had heard quite enough of what the crowd was thinking, and made an appearance at the feast and after party, he had slipped away. He may have even left that night, if not for his late night intruder.

Speaking of which, Voldemort glanced at the clock, and huffed and impatient sigh. The little brat was taking his time.

* * *

Harry stood with his head against the inner-wall of Draco's bedroom, and groaned softly. Draco, Blaise and Hermione hovered nearby, each displaying different facets of the emotions currently causing his guts to churn. Draco looked plainly worried, and every now and then he would rest a comforting hand on Harry's arm or back. Draco was quite a physically affectionate guy (once one got past the Malfoy frostiness), and while this was a kind gesture, it seemed to make him feel worse. Blaise looked very grave, exchanging very serious looks with Harry now and then, as if he alone understood the gravity of the situation he was in. Harry could guess what Blaise was thinking, knew just as well the bloody reputation of the Dark Lord. They had never heard of anyone going to his home before, not outside the Death Eaters, which suggested no one had lived to tell the tale if this had happened before. Hermione, who was perhaps the calmest of all of them, merely look thoughtful. She was looking at Harry like he was some complex arithmancy problem that she was determined to figure out.

"So you just started speaking Parseltongue?" asked Draco, bewildered. "To his snake? Have you seen that thing?"

"For the third time," muttered Harry, as he tried in vain to get the cool of the wall to soothe his recent headache. "Yes. And before you ask again, no, it's never happened before."

Draco nodded, a look between fear and awe clouding his features. Harry could guess why. Parselmouth was an ancient trait, passed down the Slytherin line, and supposedly only showing up in the purest and most powerful of magical lines. Anyone who could speak Parseltongue would be instantly more respected by the traditional, pureblood society that Draco was raised in. However, there was more to it than that. Parselmouths had a definite propensity towards dark magic, and the only Parselmouth in living memory was the Dark Lord himself. As much as Harry was sure that Draco respected the Dark Lord, he doubted he wanted his best friend to become to next Voldemort.

"Did anything happen beforehand?" asked Blaise, quietly. "Did anyone speak to you, cast a spell on you, anything?"

"I think I would have mentioned that." Answered Harry, a little too sharply.

"And there definitely isn't a spell that allows you to learn Parseltongue." added Hermione, slowly and thoughtfully. "It's theorised that the ability is passed down in the blood, but it's very recessive. The likelihood of you inheriting it from a family where neither parent was a Parselmouth is… extremely unlikely."

"So what does that mean?" asked Harry. As he spoke, he was hurriedly throwing things into a small bag. Shrinking clothes – Draco's, as he hadn't thought to bring a change of them – along with some toiletries, his journal, and a book. Harry wasn't sure he'd be in a position to leisure read at the home of the Dark Lord, but he remained optimistic. If Voldemort didn't kill him, he might allow him to spend some time not being interrogated.

"Well," began Hermione. "It could mean that your parents were not your parents…"

Harry raised an eyebrow. The briefest possibility that he might have a family alive somewhere made his stomach do a strange jump, but he quickly squashed it with his own common sense.  
"That's unlikely. I look too much like my parents. I've seen a picture of them before." muttered Harry, quickly finishing his packing and throwing a concerned look at the clock above Draco's bed.

"There are spells-" Hermione began, sounding unsure. Blaise cut her off.

"I think that's hardly likely. Trust me, spells to establish paternity re extremely simple. I very much doubt that the war-orphans went untested, since so many of them were displaced." Blaise's eyes were serious and cold at this. Harry knew exactly why he knew so much about paternity spells, but he had no time now to comfort his friends.

"Then what?" demanded Draco, his worry giving his voice a hard edge.

"I think it might be my locket." Harry said this wearily, as if expecting to be immediately corrected. At the confused looks of his friends, he sighed, and pulled the locket from beneath his robes. The locket had a habit of sticking quite well to his skin.

"Your locket..?" asked Hermione, confused.

"I haven't gone time to explain, and it probably sounds mad." Harry swung the bag over his shoulder, and pocketed his wand. He took a deep, steadying breath. "But this is Slytherin's locket, it was worn by Bellatrix and Voldemort before me. Lately – well, more than lately really – it's been acting strange. It's been speaking to me."  
The looks on his friend's faces turned from confusion to concern, but he continued on, dropping eye contact in hopes of not seeing the moment they decided he'd gone mental.  
"It was what hid me from Voldemort last night. I asked it to, and… then I was invisible. It wasn't even like a disillusionment charm, it was actually like I briefly ceased to exist. Voldemort cast loads of spells and couldn't see me." Harry said this all in a rush, like it'd be easier to say it if he said it quickly.

Slowly, Hermione began to nod. "It must be an incredibly powerful magical object," she said, and tentatively, she touched the locket.  
"Ow!" she yelped, jumping back. "Gods, that's so cold. How do you stand it?"

"Cold?" he asked, looking down at his locket in confusion and holding it in his hands. "What do you mean?"

Hermione stared at him for a long moment, before seeming to shake herself and return to her senses. "I can't say for definite, Harry, but I think you might be right about that locket. When I get back to Hogwarts this afternoon, I'm going to go to the library and see what I can find out." she said, carefully. "Maybe the Black Library too. Bellatrix made me a secret keeper for our new home. I think that object might be rather darker than a mere talisman."

Harry nodded, sending her a grateful smile. He didn't know how useful the information would be now, given that he'd soon be under the scrutiny of the Dark Lord.  
"Harry," began Hermione, a little nervously. "I wouldn't mention your theory to the Dark Lord. He'd probably just think it were silly."

Harry registered that her voice was strained, like she were lying. The brief, clever voice in the back of his mind suggested it was because she knew that he'd soon be subject to truth serum and perhaps legilimency. He crushed the thought quickly, in case he was right. He merely nodded at her.  
As he turned to leave, he gave Draco and Hermione a hug. He promised them that he'd be alright, although he wasn't sure he believed it.

He and Blaise exchanged a long, significant look. Finally, the boy pulled him into a rough hug. When he pulled away, he said;  
"Do you want me to see if I can come with you?" Blaise asked, his voice very serious.

It was a silly question, really. They both knew that the Dark Lord was hardly like him to bring a friend, but the offer was a testament to Blaise's bravery, and his love for Harry. Harry shook his head, smiling sadly.  
"I'll be fine, guys. Really, what's the worst that could happen?" he smiled weakly.

Minutes later, as he made his way down the winding corridors of Malfoy Manor, and towards the waiting Dark Lord, he found himself considering that question again; What was the worst that could happen?

He sighed, resigned. He was probably going to find out.


	10. Seven Is A Good Number

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for your patience, guys.

**2nd November 1995**

Twenty-four short hours later, Harry found himself sat in a highly uncomfortable straight-backed chair, being scrutinized by the highly intimidating Dark Lord. Icy blue eyes raked over him, a look of bored disdain gracing his ethereal features.  
Harry shied away from the look. He picked a point on the wall just above Voldemort's head, and concentrated hard upon it. Much like a vicious animal, it seemed unwise to meet the Dark Lord's eyes.  
This had been going on for the past five minutes. Harry fidgeted, adjusted his position on the chair, and ran his fingers nervously over the side of his neck. That had been a habit of his since he was a child; he always rubbed his neck when he was nervous or frightened. Professor Lestrange had once chided him for it, and remembering this – and also the lecture he'd once received from Lady Malfoy on the importance of maintaining composure – he returned his hands to his lap.  
By contrast, the Dark Lord's posture couldn't have been more relaxed. The man still wore the dark dress robes from the night before, and the air of easy authority they gave him suited him. Voldemort lounged back in the plush leather chair he had summoned, one leg over the chair-arm and his arms were relaxed. He held his wand with a lazy grip in his right hand. Only the intensity of his expression showed he wasn't readying for a nap. Somehow, this lackadaisical appearance made Harry uncomfortable. He looked like a wolf considering his next meal, a young deer that would take very little effort to snare.

Finally, after what seemed an excruciating amount of time, the Dark Lord spoke.  
"Your name is Harry James Potter." It wasn't a question, but Harry nodded anyway. "Your parents. A blood-traitor and a mudblood."

"I suppose." Harry responded, shifting uncomfortably.

"You suppose?" The Dark Lord's sharp eyes focused on Harry, electric blue boring down into killing curse green.

"Well I don't remember them. I know only what others have told me." Harry was pleased that his voice sounded far calmer than he felt.

Voldemort nodded, considering. "And do you wish you had known them, Harry?"

The voice he used was deceivingly sweet, deceptive in it's calm, encouraging manner. Perhaps it was partly hysteria, but a smile bubbled up inside of him before he could stop it. The Dark Lord acting as any kind of counselor was just too ludicrous. Irritation flashed across the Dark Lord's features, and the smile died on his lips. "Something funny, boy?"

"No, my Lord." He said quickly, clearing his throat. He improvised. "It's just a ridiculous notion to me. I have no love for traitors or rogues."

The Dark Lord held his eyes, and Harry steeled himself to keep eye contact. After a moment, Voldemort looked away.  
"I see," said Voldemort, slowly. "So you reject all things muggle?"

Harry nodded vehemently.

"Your disappearing act at Malfoy Manor," he withdrew a vial from the inner pocket of his robes and set it on a small table to his right. Harry recognized it as veritaserum. "You seemed genuinely at a loss as to how to explain it. I almost believe you. I'll give you a final opportunity to tell me the truth of your own free will before I give you this." His words were calm, impassive.

"I honestly have no idea how it happened. It just did."

Voldemort nodded, too calm. "You remind me of a child from an old story. An apprentice that enchants a broom to do chores for him, but quickly loses control." He said this casually, "perhaps you know it?"

Harry thought back. He did remember the story vaguely, but he couldn't remember where from. Perhaps one of the carers back at the orphanage.  
"… Yes. Didn't…the broom split in two? Start breaking everything?"

Voldemort's calm expression quickly melted away into a vicious, smug look.  
"Well that answers my first question," said the Dark Lord, standing up and looming over him. He reached back into his cloak, and drew another item. A small pill that Harry recognized.

"A boldness tab?" It was exactly what Hermione had used the other evening at the party. "What? And what question?" Harry felt too bewildered to be polite.

Voldemort glanced at the pill, and smiled maliciously. "Ah yes. Those Weasley boys are quite the inventors. I'll be having them sworn into my ranks the minute they're out of Hogwarts. Keep them out of trouble." He set the pill down beside the vial. "And the question of your honesty, boy. The story is, in fact, muggle."

Harry paled. An instant vision of '101 Fairy Tales' that graced his bookshelf back in the marauders room coming to mind. How had he been so stupid? A slip like that in front of the ever-astute dark lord.  
"So where did you hear it?" demanded the Dark Lord, still looming over him.

"It must have been…I mean, maybe another child? I don't," he struggled to find a lie that wouldn't end in pain.

"Don't lie to me, boy." Voldemort snapped, venom lacing his words. "Anything I want to know, I can just rip from your mind.  _Leglimens!_ "

And then Voldemort was out cold.

* * *

Voldemort had 'locked' the boy away almost as soon as they had returned to the Riddle Wreck. This was the name he had given the castle he had taken shortly after the Light's defeat. Mostly, the name was for his enjoyment. Not that he attached any significance to the surname due to familial sentiment –h e had murdered his Father after all - but because he remembered being a very young boy with the name 'Tom Riddle' and dreaming of power and glory. It also helped that the ominous alliteration kept the public wondering what unimaginable tortures happened here.  
In fact, his home was rather comfortable. The vast majority of the rooms had thick carpets, comfortable chairs and large windows. He enjoyed his comforts as much as the next man.  
The room he had put the boy in was his least luxurious, and even that was still livable. It still had a double bed, a bookshelf, a desk and an en suite bathroom. It was a rather chilly room, however, as he didn't want the child to be too comfortable. He had ordered the house elf to deliver the child some bread and water in the evening, just to add to the 'prisoner' atmosphere. Voldemort wasn't above a little drama.

Morning had brought it's own excitement. Bellatrix arrived outside the wards of the castle just after eight am; Voldemort had been awake since precisely six am, as always, and had somewhat expected her arrival. Ever security conscious, he apparrated the woman inside, and soon after they had been sharing breakfast together, as Bellatrix shared his love of breakfast steak.

"The American didn't even put up a fight. He literally came out wandless and begged for his life, tried to bargain a treaty agreement. It was disgusting." Bellatrix nose wrinkled, and Voldemort chuckled. His right-hand woman had a well-known respect for talent, but a lesser-known respect for bravery. The American Head Wizard had neither respect nor bravery, and so the vicious witch had eliminated him without a second thought.  
"One of your more tactical Death Eaters," Bellatrix sneered. "Found some papers. She believes the muggles were paying the American wizards for help in their wars."

'Tactical' was a tame word for Bellatrix, and it's use was probably because anything more derisive might seem like a criticism of the Dark Lord's recruitment methods. They were his Death Eaters that had been inducted due to their wits alone, not because of any particular magical skill or bloodline. Although Bellatrix was a clever witch, she was also a warrior to her bones. She couldn't abide anyone that didn't have at least a working knowledge of the Dark Arts.

"It wouldn't surprise me if that were the case. Their ministry was even more corrupt than the old British ministry." He conceded.  
They finished their meals while they spoke of future plans for their newly attained territory. Bellatrix was the only person he was ever so casual with, because she was truly his right-hand. He needn't induce fear or respect in her, because it was a given. She was a sycophant, loyal to him to her last breath, and he trusted that madness.

"I have a boy from Hogwarts here." He began.

Bellatrix raised an eyebrow curiously. "Here? In this castle?"

He nodded. "It's a long story that you don't need to know the details of." He began, aloof. "His name is Harry Potter. I believe you probably recognize the name?"

Bellatrix nodded seriously. "Yes. The Potter boy is one of my favorites, actually. He's strong. Clever."

"Is he really?" Voldemort lounged back in his chair. "He didn't seem too impressive to me."

Bellatrix shrugged. "He's a Gryffindor. He doesn't have an ounce of cunning about him, but his ability to grasp complex ideas, see patterns and master spells is aweing. He's a prodigy."

This was an interesting development for Voldemort. At least the child wouldn't be boring.  
"What else can you tell me about him?" He asked. Bellatrix knew better than to ask him why he had the child, or why he was asking those questions.

"He was raised in the orphanages. His Father was James Potter, and his mother…that mudblood girl. I forget her name. He's close to the Malfoy and Zabini boys, and Hermione. He's the one that has your talisman."

Voldemort held a hand up, quieting her, while he considered this. So the boy wore his Horcrux. He had known, of course, that a child at Hogwarts had it. It was useful for dampening powerful magic, and from what Bellatrix had told him, the child had that in spades.  
"And where do you think his loyalties lie?" he questioned.

"With you." She answered, no doubt evident. "He's a mischievous kid, and I've had him whipped more times than I can count, but he's loyal to the regime."  
Voldemort nodded, glad to have more information to work with.

Shortly after, he'd dismissed Bellatrix and summoned the boy to the drawing room. This would be an interesting conversation indeed.

* * *

Harry had never panicked quite as much as when he was faced with an unconscious Dark Lord.  
His first instinct was to run like a bat out of hell. Apparrate once he was beyond the walls, and leave the country, and never come back.  
His second thought was that he could literally kill the Dark Lord. He didn't quite know where that thought came from, because he actually respected the Dark Lord immensely.  
His third idea, and the one he went with, was to kneel next to the Dark Lord and gently enervate him. He had the sense to stand well back as his eyes opened.  
The Dark Lord looked confused for a split second, before jumping up and pointing his wand directly at Harry's throat. Harry bowed his head. Still on his knees, he placed his palms flat down on the floor in front of him and kept his head low. It was a deliberate act of submission.

"Please, my Lord. I have no idea what just happened." He said, his voice level.  
After a moment, Harry felt the Dark Lord shift and then he was pulled to his feet roughly by his clothes.

Wordlessly, the Dark Lord withdrew a knife. Harry stayed perfectly still, shocked into motionless silence. Voldemort then dragged the knife through the top buttons of Harry's shirt, sending them flying across the floor.  
In a single motion, Voldemort pulled the Slytherin Locket from around Harry's neck.

Several things happened in that moment.

Firstly, Harry was filled with an indescribable, violent pain. He was barely conscious of his knees hitting the floor, the tears running down his face. He grabbed his temples and screamed. There was no logic, no thought, just the pain. Secondly, the talisman evidently grew hot in Voldemort's hand, because he dropped it to the floor with an uncharacteristic yelp and his hands had a reddened look to them as though scolded. Thirdly, Voldemort looked completely bewildered. Something Harry was in far too much pain to register, but would have shaken him to the core had he been more aware.  
It could only have been moments later when Voldemort straddled his thrashing form, and forced the talisman back around his neck.  
The pain abruptly ceased.

The intense memory of the pain kept him clouded for a good minute, before he became fully aware of the strangeness of the situation. Voldemort, the Dark Leader of the Wizarding World, was straddling his chest. Not only that, but the man was panting – appearing flustered and out of sorts. Harry blushed deeply, daring not ask the man to move. Luckily, he did so himself moments later.

"It would appear," began Voldemort, "that my… talisman, has grown rather attached to you."

Voldemort sat on the floor next to wear Harry was laid. The Dark Lord was sat on the floor! Harry sat up, too, eyeing the man curiously.  
Voldemort was looking at Harry oddly now, as if seeing him in a whole new light. There was something unguarded in the way he stared.  
"You are a curious one, Potter." Voldemort said, finally. He stood up, and Harry followed.

"I suppose I'll have to rely on veritaserum alone. It would appear that the talisman offers some protection from leglimency."  
Harry nodded, surprised. He wondered vaguely how much more the locket could do. Did this mean he should tell the Dark Lord of his suspicions?  
He sat down in the chair once again, and took the vial and pill as they were given to him. Swallowing them both, he shivered at the vaguely unpleasant sensation that came over him. It was like an uncomfortable buzzing in the back of his head.

"What is your full name?" began Voldemort, once again watching him intensely.

"Harry James Potter." The answer came from his lips, but he couldn't remember consciously giving it. It was like it was being pulled from inside him. He didn't like it.

"Are you loyal to me?" purred the Dark Lord.

"Loyal enough. I'm not disloyal to you." Harry felt dismay overcome him. He couldn't even control how the truth was phrased, and he could feel the boldness tab kicking in. His ability to filter his words, slipping away.

"When did you find out you were a Parselmouth?"

"Two nights ago."

"Why were you near my rooms?"

"I was exploring."

"And you didn't know my rooms were there?"

"No. I didn't know. I mean, I thought they might be. I wanted to get a glimpse of you, maybe. I don't know." He wanted to choke himself.

"Why did you want to see me?"

"You're the Dark Lord." He said, simply.

"Do you think you're special, Harry?" Voldemort asked, a small smile gracing his features.

"Yes." He tried desperately to inject some humbleness into his next sentence, to no avail. "I am special. I am far more clever, more talented and more powerful than even the best Hogwarts had to offer. Even Hermione. I love her though, bless her, and she's clever too."

Voldemort chuckled, and Harry felt heat rise in his cheeks.  
"Do you think you're more powerful than me, little one?" the Dark Lord asked, wry amusement evident.

"I don't know. I want to find out though. That's why I want to duel you one day. I hope not, though."

Voldemort cocked his head, bemused. "why do you want me to be more powerful?"

"Well, then I'd be bored, wouldn't I?" The boldness tab was literally a taste in his mouth at those words.

Voldemort rolled his eyes, but the amusement didn't leave his features. Harry only hoped this was a positive sign.  
"How did you disappear that night when I was pursuing you?"

"I don't know," Harry tried to bite his tongue now, but it failed miserably. "But I have a theory! The locket. It helps me. It helps me out of danger."

If Voldemort had looked perplexed before, it was nothing to how he looked now. "Helps you…?"

"I can't explain it. Sometimes I feel like it guides me out of difficult situations. Sometimes I'm sure it's prevented spells reaching me. It even speaks to me, now and again."

"Speaks to you?" Voldemort literally had widened eyes at this. "What does it say?"

"At first it was just babbling, strange hissing sounds. Then over time, it was as if it learned English, and," Harry paused, his own eyes widening too. "Actually, no. No it didn't learn English, did it? I learned Parseltongue. That's impossible, though."

Voldemort sat back, silently taking in Harry. The effect of the pill and veritaserum making him literally shake, like a child who'd had too many sweets.  
"Bellatrix was right to call you clever, child."

"Bellatrix was here?" he questioned, "Well, she is your right hand, isn't she? She's brilliant. I reckon I could take her though." He clamped his hands over his mouth, but Voldemort only laughed, obviously amused.

"I think I like you better bold, boy. Although I'd watch your tongue around her. You're still only a scrawny adolescent, and she'd pick her teeth with your bones."

"She would, too. I can actually imagine her doing that. I bet she was fierce during the war."

Voldemort nodded. "That she was. Where were we?" he paused. "Ah yes. It talks to you. What does it say?"

"Mostly nothing intelligible. It's like a string of consciousness. It talks about an orphanage sometimes, and a cave. Sometimes it talks about Hogwarts, some girl called Myrtle Warren." Harry shrugged. "It only rarely seems to know me, and only in dire situations and then it's generally an order."

Voldemort nodded thoughtfully.  
"How did you know that muggle fairy tale?" he questioned.

"There's a room in Hogwarts. It's called the Marauders room. It's filled with muggle artifacts, diary entries from some guy during the war. Muggle books, magazines, newspapers and photos. I've read all of it." Harry had the forethought to look abashed, as Voldemort looked sternly at him.

"You realise keeping that kind of contraband is illegal, boy." Voldemort began, almost as if to scold Harry.

"I'm sorry, my Lord. I was just curious." Harry bit his lip, looking like the naughty school boy he was.

"And have these… findings… altered your opinion of muggles?" he said, scathingly.

"It's just made me curious, my Lord. Not really altered my world view."

Voldemort sighed, flashing the boy an irritated look. After several minutes, he stood up.  
"I think that's all I needed to know."

"Will… Will you let me live then, my Lord?" Harry asked, tentatively.

The Dark Lord flashed him a dark smile. "Yes, child. I'll have you returned to Hogwarts this afternoon. However," his gaze grew serious again. "There are several conditions you will obey."

Harry nodded, eager to agree to anything that meant he could return to his normal life and pretend this had not happened.

"First of all, you will tell no one of your new ability," Voldemort began. Harry, still affected by the pill, interrupted.

"Hermone, Draco and Blaise already know." He interjected.

Voldemort growled. "Children gossip far too much these days. Fine. No one else, and you will warn them under pain of death to tell no one."

"Okay." Harry nodded.

"Secondly, I will be sending one of my snake's offspring with you to Hogwarts. This is to keep an eye on you, and to help develop your new ability. You may to speak to her, but only in privacy or in front of those three that already know."  
Harry nodded.

"Thirdly. I don't know why the talisman has took such an interest in you, but I have a feeling your prodigious mind has much to do with it. I need as many talented Death Eaters as I can under my command, so consider yourself marked. That means I expect the best from you."

Harry frowned. "But I'm already the best?"

" _Lashius._ " Voldemort said boredly. Harry yelped and bit his lip.

"Then be even better. Impress me. Learn new magicks. Expand. Hogwarts need not be your comparison for greatness. When I was your age, I was already building an army."

"Should I-?"

"No you shouldn't build an army!" Voldemort responded, exasperated and amused. "What I'm saying is, be impressive. Don't bore me, child."

Harry nodded, seriously.

"I'm a busy man, Harry Potter. I have a world to conquer, and I don't have time to chase school children. Behave yourself and stay out of trouble. How old are you now, boy?"

"I'm fifteen, my Lord."

Voldemort nodded thoughtfully. "Seven is a good number, is it not? Yes, seven. Come to me on your twenty-second birthday. Impress me with your growth. Then, child, we'll see about that duel."


	11. Chapter 11: Birthdays and Betrothals

Chapter Eleven

July 31st 1996, Early morning.

Reading by moonlight was something Harry Potter had become accustomed to over the last year. So much so was the habit, that reading by the light of day felt strange to him. He'd always found it hard to take in written text when surrounded by the white noise of adolescent chatter; the soundtrack of life at Hogwarts – and nowadays, it was about more than just peace - it was about privacy. At Hogwarts, this was easily resolved with a trip to the marauders room. Here, in the shadows of Malfoy Manor, he had to be more creative.

It was a little after two in the morning, and the moon was an inconvenient sliver in the sky; a new moon. Brilliant if he was looking to pick elderberry roots for a healing potion, but terrible for the purposes of seeing words on a page. He'd had this problem a few times, and after giving up on holding a wand whilst turning pages, he had invented a spell. A tiny projection of the moon was now floating inches above his book. The spell was nothing spectacular, but he found it more peaceful than the glowing orbs one might usually use for such ventures.

As the night turned from balmy, midsummer heat to a slight chill, Harry paused. He leaned his back against the trunk of an oak tree so old, that he could feel the faint warmth of magic flowing through it, and ran his hands through the grass until he made contact with his wand. He non-verbally cast a warming charm and sighed with relief; a light smile played across his face. He could, of course, cast such charms wandlessly – but he was tired, and his attention was slipping – last time he'd tried to do wandless magic fatigued, he'd set fire to his clothes.

The tree sat atop a hill that overlooked a meadow. In the centre of the meadow, looking the height of idyllic authority, was the manor. It was late, and so most of the windows were darkened, giving the whole area a sleepy feel. Harry knew many thought Malfoy Manor had an intimidating exterior, but he'd always thought of it as homely; it was the first place he'd stayed because someone had wanted him, rather than because they were duty bound as his orphanage or school. This thought brought a pang to his chest. As he glanced down at 'A History of Western Philosophy', he wondered what his best friend would think to his reading material and the lengths he'd gone to, to obtain it. His heart ached, as one only can when you are trapped between two things that you want dearly.

It had begun last Christmas, when he'd finished reading every book in the Marauders room for the fifth time. It wasn't like he was short on literature; Hogwarts library was more stocked now than it had ever been, having been extended several times in the last decade. Every time a new land was conquered, their books were taken and copied, and those that were relatively safe ended up in the schools library (those that weren't were in the Headmistresses office, and therefore still quite accessible to him). Yet, the muggle books were more to him than just academic gain; they were a gateway to a whole new world. There was a world he knew nothing of, existing within miles of his own. They had their own culture, their own history. He even knew enough about his parents, to know that his Grandparents on his mothers side had actually been one of them. His ancestors were muggles! Part of the allure was in the taboo of it. It wasn't as if he could just ask his Professors to tell him about the muggle world; at best, he'd earn a flogging – at worst, an execution.  
It wasn't that he didn't understand the risks of mixing with muggle kind, but he had to satisfy his curiosity. Reaching the end of the road with the marauders room had been like a kick in the stomach, very like the pang of guilt he'd just endured.

It was after a couple of days of feeling sorry for himself, that it first occurred to him that he could get more. The muggle world, after all, was not some distant planet (even if the Ministry would like it to be so). The security measures put in place were mostly unknown, but Harry Potter was not your average wizard.  
It took a couple of weeks of research. Old books and new studies, carefully worded questions to his professors, and quite a bit of magical 'pizazz'. The protection included wards, trackers and rather complex spells. Eventually, he managed to figure his way around these issues. The wards could be carefully de-constructed in a small area without attracting attention; they were such a small percentage of the whole barrier that the caster wouldn't be able to detect it. His wand would also have to be left behind, but he was proficient enough at wandless magic to get by.  
Being able to do it, and having the necessary daring were different matters, however. After he'd figured out how he would accomplish the task, and checked and rechecked his work, he still took a further week before he'd gone through with it...

A rustling from his inner pocket caused him to jerk out of his nostalgia. He'd been sitting still with the book in his lap, staring out into the valley, and the movement made him jump. Sighing with frustration, he opened his cloak to see the head of a small snake, poking it's head out from it's cotton cradle.

"Ember. I told you to stay in my bed chamber," he hissed in exasperation.

As promised, the Dark Lord had indeed given him a snake. It had been a few weeks after his return to Hogwarts from the Riddle Wreck, and he'd entirely forgotten about the proposed serpent spy. That was until his relaxation in the common room was interrupted by the scream of Blaise, who'd discovered a rather scaly and unexpected guest under his pillow. The snake and he had been getting on like a house on fire ever since. Well, that was if he was the house in that simile, and Ember was her namesake.

"The young speaker should stop presuming to tell me what to do," said the snake, sounding groggy from her nap. It amazed him that he hadn't noticed her presence before, but Ember was very good at being sneaky.

"You'll get cold," he warned her, gently. Although the night was pleasant enough, the snake preferred a much warmer climate; hence her insistence on staying close to his skin at all times.

"The young speaker needs my protection in these foolish pursuits," the snake then pointedly slithered down his arm and across the pages of the book he was reading. "He plays a dangerous game, for so small a victory," she let the last sentence trail off. Ember was not a snake to let her opinion go unheard. Fortunately, it would seem that the Dark Lord's plan had backfired; Ember was loyal to him, and though often disapproving, she had never gone to Voldemort about his actions.

"The reward is knowledge, Em. Knowledge is power," he whispered. Like any serpent, Ember respected that kind of ambition. "The muggles have their own weapons; weapons we're entirely ignoring. They have their own sciences, their own religions, their own political systems. What is our distaste for them costing us?"

Ember slithered around his wrist, and then lifted her head to face him. She was quiet for a long moment before she spoke, her voice softer and less mocking than he might have expected. "Is it about the power, the knowledge? For that I can understand, my young speaker. Or is it about the boy? For that, that will lead you into more trouble than a muggle could ever be worth."

'Ah yes' thought Harry, 'the boy.'  
To think, he'd almost gone a whole hour without thinking about him…

The following morning, Draco Malfoy was in the midst of what could only be called a fashion disaster. Dressed in grey trousers, a black shirt and a silver waist coat, he looked as refined and handsome as ever. The issue being that today, for reasons he didn't care to think on, he wanted to look particularly noticeable.  
Standing in front of his enchanted mirror, he held four ties up to his torso and sighed. This had been going on for half an hour.

"Which one?" he demanded of the mirror, the glare on his face not doing much for the mirrors attitude.

"They're all rather boring," said the mirror, stifling a yawn. Incensed, Draco flipped the mirror to face away from him, causing the mirror to chuckle maliciously. No one should have to deal with shit from an inanimate object this early in the morning.

"She is not arriving for another two hours, you know," came a familiar, silky voice from the doorway.

Draco whipped around, and tried to suppress the rising heat in his cheeks. His Father, Lucius Malfoy, was stood at the entrance to his bed chambers. He was already dressed, although in an unusually casual manner. Draco imagined he planned to change before the days events started. His Father was also wearing an uncharacteristically amused expression, a real warmth in his eyes

"I don't know what you mean, Father." he tried to say this calmly, but his voice was just a touch too high pitched to be convincing. His Father snorted, and walked into the room. Without another word, he picked up the white tie and placed it around his sons shoulders.

"Do you remember when I taught you how to do this?" he asked softly, as he tied the tie. Draco, a little bewildered by the nostalgia, nodded.

"I was five. I'd taken one of yours and was trying to do it. I ended up nearly choking myself," Draco said, matter-of-factly.

"It was actually remarkably cute," Lucius said with a smile, as he finished the final loop and straightened the tie.

"You were angry!" Draco countered.

"Well of course I had to make you think so," Lucius laughed. "I'm your Father. What kind of man would I have raised, if I indulged your mischief every time you did something cute?" Lucius sat down on the bed, and alarm bells began going off in Draco's mind. It wasn't that his Father was never warm, but there was usually some kind of provocation. Today was Harry's birthday, not his. He sat next to his Father, curious. "You'll be an adult in less than a year," he sighed, shaking his head. A sad smile ghosted over his lips. "Where has the time gone, my little Dragon?"

Now Draco struggled not to openly gape. His Father hadn't called him that since he was a toddler. "Father..." he began, carefully. "What's this about?"

Lucius seemed to shake himself from his reverie, and gave his son an appraising look. After another long moment, he spoke: "You'll be beginning your sixth year in a month, Draco. As you know, at the end of your sixth year, they'll be choosing who to begin training to join the Death Eaters," he paused significantly, and Draco nodded, already aware of this. "As long as there are no dramatic changes in the next year – which I highly doubt – you'll be amongst those eligible."  
Draco nodded. He was consistently third or fourth in his year rankings, making him worthy of being chosen, even without his family connections. Being a Death Eater was a prestigious honour; an honour he'd been preparing for from birth. "It would please me, my son, if you did not choose to follow that path," Lucius was deadpan as he said this, which was incredible, to say he'd just dropped the biggest bombshell of Draco's life.

"You… You want me to not join the Death Eaters?" he baulked. "Why?"

"The war is long over, Draco," Lucius looked at him with serious eyes, full of emotion that he would usually disguise. "The wrongs of the world have been righted, and the Dark Lord does not need every wand on his side. You are clever and capable, there are many things you can do with your life that doesn't involve the inherent danger of being at the right hand of our Lord."

Draco bristled, more outraged than he had ever been with his Father. "You think I am incapable!" he accused. "You think I am still a child, bound to get hurt or in the way?"

His Father's eyes did not become dangerous, as they usually would if Draco had spoken to him with such disrespect. "No, my son. I am quite aware of how capable you are. I'd even say that you are more talented than I was at your age."

This abruptly ended Draco's tirade; his Father had sounded sincere. Lucius was not one to be humble, and this was a great compliment. "Then why, Father?  
Being a Death Eater will retain the prestige of our family. You have always imparted upon me the importance of our line remaining at the top tier of society."

Lucius nodded, "You are correct, and I stand by that. It is essential that our family remains close to the Dark Lord, and it will."

Now Draco was just confused. "Father, you cannot live forever as our Lord can. What happens when I am the head of the family, and have no more power or influence over the Death Eaters than a barmaid?"

Lucius gave Draco a flat look, "I said that I didn't want you to be a Death Eater, not that I wanted you to become a labourer. You can be a Professor, or a politician, or a banker. The world is yours," he paused, his tone scolding Draco for his silliness. "What I am trying to say, my son, is that for the family to retain ties with the Dark Lord, you do not necessarily have to. Bellatrix and I have come to an understanding."

"Aunt Bella?" he asked, bemused.

"Yes. As I said, it will not be long before you reach your majority. It is time now for us to think of the continuation of our line."

Draco remained puzzled for a split second more, before it dawned on him what his Father was trying to say. All the colour drained from his face, making him more pale than seemed possible. A passer-by might even mistake him for a ghost. "Hermione?" he said the word softly, delicately. "You are going to have me engaged to Hermione?"

Lucius nodded. "I trust you approve of the match? I know you've been holding a flame for the girl for some time now - don't look so surprised, I was young once too - and now that she has joined a suitable lineage, she is more than a good match."

Draco nodded, not trusting himself to speak. Hermione? It was all that he could hope for, but in entirely the wrong way. Over the last several months, his crush on the girl had only escalated into something that was dabbling in love. She was brilliant, of course. Even Harry, a verified genius, couldn't always keep up with her broad knowledge. She was kind too, but not someone to be crossed. She had fire in her, but she only allowed it to burn those that deserved it. Of course, she was also beautiful. She was the only girl Draco had ever thought twice about, despite the others he had taken to his bed over the last year. When he was done with those girls, he didn't give them much thought. He was polite, of course, and never one to kiss and tell, but Hermione was the one he thought of over and over again, late into the night.

"So what you're saying is, is that you want me to be betrothed to her. Then you want me to stand in the shadows whilst she rises in the ranks and gives our family merit. I'm to be a house husband, trapped in the shadows of a wife who had no choice in her marital status?" he seethed.

This time, Lucius did look irritated. "You knew that your marriage would be arranged, Draco. This is the way things have always been, and it is the way that this will be."

Lucius stood up, indicating that their 'heart to heart' had come to an end. Draco was not ready for this conversation to be over. "Father, please. You don't understand. I… If I am to marry her, then I need it to be her choice. I...I love her," the last words were strained and painful, for it was the first time he'd said them out loud.

Lucius sneered, "You are complaining that you love your wife-to-be?"

"I am complaining that my wife-to-be, strong willed as she is, will feel a prisoner in my home. A prisoner in my… bed, when the time comes for us to continue the line." he argued, his words were heated, but he felt so young.

"Hermione is a Black now, Draco, and she will do her duty," Lucius replied dismissively, as he began to walk away.

"Father, I do not want to be her 'duty'" he pleaded.

"This betrothal is happening Draco." Lucius left no room for argument.

As guilt and anger ate away at his stomach, an idea occurred to him. An idea that was his last and only hope. "Father. Give me until the end of sixth year to complete this proposal," he asked, his voice level and calmer than he felt. "Let me court her, so that our marriage might be a happy one. Please, this is all I ask of you. Let me have a chance of a match as happy as yours and Mothers."

Lucius stopped in his egress, and turned back to his son. He held his gaze for some time, and a little of it's previous warmth returned. "Fine. You have until the end of sixth year to earn Miss Black's affections, but mark me Draco, you will be betrothed then regardless."

This time, Lucius left no room for argument as he swept from the chambers. Moments later, Draco flopped back onto the bed, his head and heart aching in equal measure. To think, he'd thought a mirror with an attitude problem was the worst of his problems...

That morning, Harry woke up late. This was not an unusual turn in events, to the point that the ever punctual Lady Malfoy usually had Dobby wake him. Evidently, she'd decided his sixteenth birthday was worthy of a lay in, as he woke up without the house elf's usual weirdness.  
He stretched and dragged himself out of bed, casting a tempus. It was just short of eleven thirty, meaning that Narcissa was indeed feeling charitable. After a quick shower, he dressed and left his room, going in search of his friends. Draco had invited quite a few people over to celebrate, and Harry was more flattered by the gesture than he cared to mention. His friends really were brilliant.  
He found them in the afternoon lounge.

"Well I see that your time-keeping hasn't improved with age, Potter." said Blaise, as Harry strolled into the room. Harry shot him an easy grin, and took a seat in front of Draco.

"Happy Birthday, Harry," said Hermione, rising from her own chair to give him a hug. She squeezed him tightly, and he returned it. Hermione always got emotional at Birthdays, seeing them as important milestones in their lives.

There was a general agreement to the sentiment, with everyone wishing him a happy birthday. There was only a handful of his friends there; Blaise, Draco, Hermione, Nott and Daphne.  
"The others are coming this evening; we've got a few more personal matters to attend to before your birthday party," came Draco, as if he'd read his mind.

"Party?" Harry asked, surprised. He'd known that quite a few of his friends were coming, but didn't think the Malfoy's were actually throwing him a party.

Daphne grinned. "Of course, silly! We had a party for all of our birthdays, so how could we not have one for our favourite troublemaker?"

The difference being, Harry thought, was that their parties had been thrown in their own manors by their own families. Even Hermione's last birthday had been taken at Black manor, though it was technically before her adoption. Harry had no such family, and the fact that his friends thought nothing of celebrating his birth in a way that relatives might, was enough to bring heat to his cheeks and his eyes water. Morganna, he'd do anything for these people.

"Are you actually blushing?" said Draco, bemused. "You are! You're blushing!"

Blaise and Nott laughed, until they were thrown a very dark look by Daphne and Hermione. At the look from Hermione, Draco also blushed, which lead the girls themselves to laugh too. Harry grinned and shot a jinx at Draco, causing his chair to tip backwards. This, of course, began a small war between the six of them. By the time a house elf came to call them for lunch, Draco's hair was pink and a pillow had been enchanted to beat Blaise. Harry had escaped unscathed only because he was trapped in an impromptu prison made of strangely strong sofa cushions, and Nott had literally hidden. The girls were looking rather pleased with themselves.

A few household spells later – courtesy of Blaise who was, oddly, the only person to know any – they were on their way to the luncheon room. Upon opening the doors, quite an elaborate spread was revealed; in the centre, a red and gold cake with the words "Happy Birthday" stood. Harry grinned, resisting the urge to tear up again. Gods, he was such an emotional idiot sometimes.  
The six of them sat down, and were shortly joined by Lucius and Narcissa, who also wished him a happy birthday. He wasted no time in tucking into the pasta dish – his favourite – but at a look from Narcissa, he coughed awkwardly, and switched his knife and fork into the correct hands. Draco and Daphne smothered a smile.

"So, Harry," began Lucius, who after five years, had finally begun to call him by his given name. "Sixteen. How does it feel?"

"Very like fifteen did, Sir, except now 'seventeen' is tantalisingly close" he answered, being careful to swallow his food before he did.

Lucius smiled, "Ah yes. Sixteen is an interesting age; too old to enjoy childish pursuits, but not yet old enough to pursue adult interests easily."

The group of teenagers exchanged knowing looks. With the help of polyjuice potion, glamours, and the remarkably light fingers of Harry, they had never had much trouble with gaining access to 'adult interests'.  
"Yes, sir. Perhaps this time next year we could all go enjoy a drink together. I understand that you know a few places of good repute?" Harry asked, donning a sly smile.

Daphne and Nott exchanged looks. Only Harry Potter would dare ask Lucius Malfoy, a death eater at the very top tier of the Dark Lord's hierarchy, out for a drink. There was a pregnant pause, and then Lucius laughed. "Indeed, Harry. I might just take you up on that offer. I've heard you might just be one to watch, once you've finished your studies."

"Lord Malfoy, if I ever rise to a necessary importance so that you might have to watch me? I'll consider myself successful indeed."

Draco rolled his eyes. As informal and childish as Harry could be, he knew damn well how to play the game.

"My, Harry," commented Narcissa, smirking. "Are you quite sure that you shouldn't have been in Slytherin?"

"Quite sure, Lady Malfoy. After all, we have a better quidditch team." he responded. Draco scoffed loudly, and Hermione rolled her eyes.

"The only reason your house won last season was because you were their seeker," argued Daphne. "The rest of the team were abysmal. I don't know how you cope."

Harry shrugged, "They're alright, they're just not as focused as the Slytherins. I dread the poor seeker that has to take over this year."

There was a shocked silence, that Harry pretended not to notice as he ate his pasta. Harry had always enjoyed quidditch, and although he didn't think of it as too significant a part of his identity, he had been the Gryffindor seeker since second year. He hadn't yet mentioned his resignation to his friends.  
"You aren't playing this year?" asked Blaise, carefully. He even looked concerned. Did they really think that a school sports team was that important to him? Well, perhaps it had been once, but these days he had other things to think about. In fact, he'd been rather wrapped up in his own life recently. He reminded himself that he'd have to catch up with all the goings on in his friends life, such as why Draco's eyes looked particularly icy when they passed over his Father today.

"No, I've decided not to partake this year, actually," responded Harry, wiping his mouth with a napkin. "I was offered Captain, and realised that might interfere too much with my studies. Then I had a long think on it, and decided that perhaps I ought to give it up entirely this year."

"A very responsible attitude," commented Lady Malfoy, who looked pointedly at her son, who was seeker for the Slytherin team. He too, had just been made Captain a week ago. They'd had a drink and celebrated, and Harry had carefully avoided the question of whether he'd received a similar letter.

The look from his Mother seemed to put Draco on the defense. "You're giving it up because of your studies? Harry, you've been unfailingly the top of our year from first year. It's not as if you need the study time."

Hermione cleared her throat, as though to say that she thought anyone should have more study time, but was ignored.

"It's not for my school studies," Harry began carefully. "I'm entering the International Duelling Competition this year. I submitted my application last week."

There was another pregnant pause, and a collected indrawn breath from his friends. Of course they had all gone on about entering the competition for years, but that was mostly just childish bolstering. They could see that he was completely serious now; Hermione was the first to speak.

"Harry, you're sixteen. We haven't even started sixth year yet!" she exclaimed, concern written all over her face.

"The competition isn't until April. I'll have completed most of sixth year by then." he replied, trying to ignore the stares.

"The qualifiers are in October. That's only a few months away," said Draco.

"I'm aware," he nodded, finishing his pasta as his appetite disappeared under the interrogation.

"Harry," began Nott, the most diplomatic of the group, given he was the least close to him. "No sixteen year old has ever even qualified for the IDC. No seventeen year old has. The youngest person ever to win was twenty, and that was..."

"The Dark Lord," finished Lucius. He alone did not appear surprised by the revelation, and merely appeared thoughtful. "Do you think you're capable enough? This competition is no childs play. You'll be facing adults, death eaters even."

"I know that I am ready. I can't say that I will definitely win," he paused. "But I'll have a damn good chance of doing just that."

The table lapsed into silence. He could see that some of his friends wanted to argue with him, but he also knew that they didn't really understand how much he had grown magically in the last year. He held back in his sparring matches with them, and kept a lot of his research to himself. A lot of it was dangerous work, and much like his ventures into the muggle world, he wanted to keep his friends out of that drama.

"Well, Harry," began Lucius. "If you're sure. I was going to wait until you turned seventeen for this conversation, but since you're determined to do this now, I think now would be the time." Harry looked over at Lucius with curiosity, as he and Lady Malfoy shared a glance. Narcissa nodded once, and Lucius continued.  
"The House of Malfoy would like to formally offer you sponsorship in your endeavour." he finished. There was another pause, and this time, a buzz of conversation erupted from his friends. Draco looked just as surprised, which meant Lucius had not discussed this idea with him. He even looked a little irritated, but Harry couldn't think why. He thought for a long moment before he spoke again.

"Sponsorship? You want me to wear your house crest during duels?" he asked, not wanting to appear ignorant of such matters.

"That, and more. When you are inevitably interviewed by the press, you will announce your alliance with House Malfoy. You will wear our crest, an should you win, we will have a ten percent stake in the winnings."

"The prize is one hundred million galleons." Harry responded, numbly. He'd not even given much thought to the winnings, focused mostly on the pride. He also remembered the promise to Voldemort, to be impressive, and it was not one he intended to break. He still had six years to do so, but there was no harm in starting young. He wanted Voldemort to remember his name, when the time came.

"Indeed, and I think you'll agree that ninety million galleons is quite enough for a sixteen year old. In return, we'll front your buy in – ten thousand galleons – and any other expenses needed for you to be in top shape when the time comes. We'll also find you tutelage."

"Tutelage with whom, Sir?" he asked, wondering at the contacts Lucius must have.

"That's to be decided."

"I'll speak to Bellatrix," said Narcissa. "She has a few… interesting friends, that might be of use."

Harry nodded, still completely thrown by the offer. He'd been planning to take a loan to front the costs, but this seemed more prudent. "And what if I don't win?" he asked.

"Then we'll say no more on it." Lucius promised, using his most political tone.

Harry looked at the ceiling, and drew a deep breath. It was a big decision, but probably the best he was going to get. Plus, it'd bring some more positive publicity to his best friends family, which he knew Draco would be grateful for.  
"I'll take you up on your offer, Sir," he said. Lucius smiled, but he continued. "However, I have some stipulations. Although I would be grateful for tutelage, I do not require instruction. My methods are unusual, and I don't want to have to answer to anyone regarding them."  
Lucius raised an eyebrow, and then raised a glass. "Well then, Mr Potter. We are in agreement," the others joined him in raising a glass. "Happy Birthday."

Happy Birthday, indeed.


	12. Chapter 12: The Blood Thirsty Moon

**October 4th 1996**

It was the kind of autumn day that was impossible to dress for. The kind of day where the morning was cool and dry, the afternoon uncomfortably hot and humid, and the evening bitterly cold. Early October was a time of year where the weather was having an identity crisis, and for the five boys that were huddled together in the night-time chill of the forbidden forest, this had left them in varying degrees of inappropriate dress. Draco was benefiting from his thick, fur lined coat with it's permanent heating charm; no one was too jealous however, given that he'd looked like a man trapped in a sauna mere hours ago. Theodore was shivering in a thin cotton shirt, looking thoroughly miserable as he scooted as close to the fire they had built as possible without burning himself. Blaise looked quite warm in his wool jumper, but apparently the thing was giving him a rash and he couldn't quite sit still. Dean Thomas was actually wearing a dressing gown that he'd sneaked back into the castle to get once the weather had dropped cooler. Harry alone looked entirely comfortable, laying shirtless on the forest floor, gazing up at the stars and lost in his thoughts. He was broken from the reverie by the voice of Blaise, who was becoming increasingly agitated;

"Remind me again why you've dragged us into the forest – a forest filled with dangerous, blood-thirsty creatures – in the middle of winter?" drawled Blaise, who looked ready to tear the jumper off and be done with it.

Harry smiled lazily, propping his head up on his arms to look at his friend. "It's a blood moon. They're rare. I've heard the forbidden forest gets interesting during the blood moon."

"Probably fills up with vampires..." muttered Theo, darkly.

"Now that's just racist," retorted Harry. "Why would vampires leave their perfectly nice homes just to hang out in the forest?"

"A very good question, Harry," said Draco, darkly. "How on earth are you over there looking so comfortable? It's freezing. You have noticed that we're not on a beach in the Caribbean, correct?"

Harry shrugged. "You are all wizards, aren't you? I'm just using a heating charm."

"A heating charm on your bare skin? All of your skin, sustainably?" asked Dean, looking quite astonished.

Draco tsked. "Let's not underestimate Mister perfect MGS' over there,"

Try as he might, Draco was still bitter, even two months after getting the results of their fifth year exams. His Mother and Father had both done very well in theirs and so Harry believed he'd been trying to beat them and further prove his worth as heir. For some reason, he'd become particularly touchy about proving just that over the summer. Harry had tried to reassure Draco that it was silly to try and compare himself to his parents, who had both done their exams when Hogwarts still used the outdated OWLs (ordinary wizarding levels). That system had only six grading levels, and the tests were apparently quite unsuitable for some of the subject matter. The new system – Ministry Grading System – was far better. The exams had been designed to test the practical use of practical subjects to a better standard, and had ten grading levels, a simple one to ten. Each student took eight subjects, without exception. Their overall WGS score was therefore out of eighty. Most jobs that didn't require AMGS' grades (advanced ministry grading system), required a minimum score of forty. Draco had therefore been fairly satisfied with his score of seventy, far above the national average and putting him in the top five percent of the year, until he had seen Harry's perfect score.

"Oh come on, Draco," Harry began, trying to mix in some tact with his frustration. "We are only ten points apart, and we both got a ten in charms."

"We didn't all get a ten in everything though," Blaise pointed out. "Not that I approve of his bitterness, obviously."

"I am not bitter!" Draco bit back, defensively. He really hadn't been in a good mood lately.

"You did better than I did." Blaise pointed out. "I only got sixty-eight."

"In fairness though, mate," said Dean, who was warming his hands on the fire. "You did decide to take fucking divination."

Blaise' expression darkened. Even in the new regime, it was difficult to find a decent divination teacher. Most of the people that claimed to be seers were frauds, demented, or both.

"The bastard gave me a five," muttered Blaise. "A five!"

"Well, you did make up the entire dream interpretation section." reasoned Theo.

"Of course I did!" came Blaise, angrily. "Everyone did! There aren't any seers left in this day and age. The whole art is a joke."

"Then why did you take it?" asked Draco.

"Well, I thought it'd be an easy grade. I didn't know how up his own arse Professor Linthwing was."

Harry, from his place on the floor, interrupted. "I don't know if we can definitely say that there are no seers left, you know. I bet there's some outside of Britain; there's no way the whole branch has gone extinct."

"It's possible," argued Blaise. "It wouldn't be the first magical art to disappear. Just look at necromancy."

Everyone nodded, although Draco looked a little pale. Harry had a feeling his Father might have told him something to the contrary, but resolved to question him in private.

"Yes, but looks at say… parseltongue. Everyone believed that to be extinct until Lord Voldemort was a teenager, and that turned out not to be true." Harry said, exchanging knowing looks with Blaise and Draco. He liked Dean and Theo, but not enough to trust them with a secret as strange as that.

"I suppose," conceded Dean. "What was it like to meet him, by the way? It was about a year ago, wasn't it?"

Harry sighed. "You're worse than the women from Witch Weekly."

"Oh come on. You never talked to anyone about it. Was it really that traumatising?" asked Theo.

Harry had actually spoken about it in detail with Hermione, Draco and Blaise. It just wasn't something he spoke about in public. Eyeing Dean, he relented;  
"It was… Interesting. He's very powerful, and it just sort of comes across in everything he does. He wasn't particularly cruel, just… direct, I suppose. Authoritative."

Dean shook his head in wonderment. "Not that I'm not like… in total awe of him, but I don't think I'd ever want to meet him. I'd feel like I was walking on egg shells, you know?"

"Yeah. I know," Harry smiled weakly.

"Is this moon going to start turning red soon or what?" complained Draco, "Even I can feel the chill now."

Harry rolled his eyes, and stood up. With a glance up at the moon, he imagined it might take some time, and he really wanted the boys to stay out here long enough to help him with the ritual he was planning. He pulled out his wand, and with a few quick wand movements, the boys were sitting in deck chairs around the fire. With another wand movement, the area around the fire was sealed in like a bubble, trapping the heat. There was a general sound of approval, as coats and jumpers were pulled off and the boys relaxed.

"I'll take that as a 'not anytime soon'" said Draco.

"Looks like we need to entertain ourselves. Anybody got fire whisky?" asked Dean, looking hopeful.

"No," said Harry. "I'm afraid I need you all sober for the ritual."

"Oh," Dean seemed disappointed. "Well I guess we'll just have to talk then. Anyone got their eye on someone?"

There was a general groan. "You're such a teenage girl sometimes, Dean," said Blaise.

"That is both misogynistic and inaccurate," laughed Harry. "He's actually some sort of toddler of unidentifiable gender,"

"It's going well with me and Daphne," interjected Blaise. "The wedding is set for summer after next, as soon as we leave Hogwarts."

"Are you excited? I mean, you are a bit young mate," argued Dean.

"She's beautiful and intelligent," responded Blaise, and then a small, gentle smile crept in his face. "And I love her wit."

Harry felt warm inside, seeing his friend light up at the mention of his future bride. Blaise could be stoic, but he was actually rather affectionate with the people he let into his life. Daphne had obviously joined that small circle.

"What about you, Harry? Any girls?" Harry stiffened a little. He'd never been a particularly good liar. Deception wasn't his game, which was why he wasn't a Slytherin.

"No," he replied. That wasn't, after all, technically a lie. "No girls."

A flash of red hair – fire red, not ginger – and bright, warm brown eyes filled his mind, unbidden. His filthy secret, who he tried his best to keep out of his mind whenever he was in the wizarding world.

"Oh come now," said Draco, who never liked to be kept out of the loop that was Harry's inner most thoughts. "You've been sneaking off for hours, several times a week. We know there's someone. Who is she?"

Harry's heart thundered in his chest. He really wasn't a good liar, and it seemed that his friends were aware of his ventures in some form or another. It wasn't like he could tell them that he was sort of, kind of, dating a muggle. A thought struck him then that he could probably mask that secret by admitting a smaller one; he could stick as close as possible to the truth without revealing the secret.

"There is..." he began nervously. "There is somebody."

Draco and Blaise looked surprise. Harry hadn't spoken about his love life with them. Ever. The thing was, Harry kind of wanted to talk about his… lover. He just couldn't be completely open, but that didn't mean he had to lie entirely.

"Who?" demanded Blaise. "Are you seeing somebody?"

Harry nodded.

"Well, who is she?" asked Draco, putting aside his grumpy mood and looking merely curious.

"Well, you see… It's not. Well, it's not a she."

Silence. In the face of dating a muggle, Harry had somehow put aside his worries of what his friends might think of him dating someone of the same sex. He'd never thought of them as homophobic – there were plenty of people in the wizarding world who sought the same sex – but people could be unexpectedly strange when it came to their friends.

"Well..." began Draco. "What's his name, then?" he asked, eagerly.

Harry laughed. It was a laugh of relief, a laugh that had in it's weight the love held for his nearest and dearest.

"Michael. His name is Michael."

* * *

A short way away in the forbidden forest, the Dark Lord stood, bathed in moonlight. He felt no chill, despite the absence of a heating charm. He didn't feel the floor beneath his feet, despite the fact that they were bare. He wasn't even aware of the excited youths that gathered less than a mile away; his eyes were closed against the mortal world. Slowly, determinedly, he shed the rest of his robes until he was naked in the night air. The forest was silent, and as still as the water in the small pond before him. His breathing was steady, rhythmic. The spell he was about to use was something that required immense magical strength, flawless self control, and above all, concentration.  
He stepped into the pond. The water lapped gently around his ankles, and then his knees. It kissed the pale skin of his thighs and lower back. He didn't pause until he was up to his neck, and that was just to gently chant the ancient words of the ritual that had become so familiar to him over the decades. That done, he submerged his whole body in the water.

Drifting. One never really got used to the weightless, shifting feeling. The feeling of being everything and nothing at once. The awareness of the whole universe, and yet the loss of individual identity. It was like unconsciousness, like death, like an orgasm and casting a spell and the last ember of a dying fire. It was also like none of these things. There was a completeness, and time lost all meaning. Like a drowned man drifting ashore, he eventually regained some awareness. In time – although perhaps it was no time at all - he could remember his own name. Tom Riddle. No, that wasn't right, was it? He had been Tom Riddle. Now he was Voldemort. Facts of his own life trickled back to him, slowly and yet all at once. Thus was the nature of this place; a place that existed without rules, without substance.

"Ah, Tom. It's been far too long, my lovely!"

A female voice that came from everywhere, and then suddenly from just one direction, gave him the last part of his consciousness back. It was probably intentional. After all, the fates didn't like unexpected guests.  
He found himself standing in a room that was entirely blue. Well, it was sort of a room, given that it had no walls or floors, but it was somehow still blue. There was a table and chairs and seemingly nothing else in the infinite void. The place changed every time he visited. The last time, it had been a nunnery. The time before that, a medieval castle. This time, it seemed they'd gone for a more simplistic theme. Perhaps they just liked to keep him guessing.

"It is fun," said another female voice. "to keep you on your toes."

At the table, dressed in robes that seemed to be made out of the night sky, were three women. Like their realm, their appearances changed every time he visited. This time, they had chosen to appear as endearing elderly women, with greying hair and wrinkled skin. The last time, they'd been beautiful; fairer than any human. He didn't think they were affected by human notions such as vanity; he imagined they just got bored.

"So what brings you to your favourite wicked sisters, Tommie boy?" said one of the fates, looking disturbing as she wiggled her eyebrows suggestively. Their taunts had been a little more acceptable when they didn't look like Bathalda Bagshot.

"The usual business. My future, obviously."

"Ah, of course. A pity you never make social calls." said another of the three, blowing him a kiss.

He knew better than to approach the table. He knew better than to approach them at all. As much as they might appear harmless – friendly even – these were mythical, terrifying creatures. They supposedly weaved the threads of destiny, although Tom had a theory that they actually just made sure that the threads behaved themselves. They were one of the few things on earth that he wouldn't ever try to have dominion over. Possibly because they were too existential to have any kind of control of anyway; they were as insubstantial as the wind, and never found unless they wanted to be.

"If you would, my ladies, I would like to know if there is anything I can do to ensure the continuance of my reign."

"You know, it's a good job we like you," scolded one of the women. "You know better than to ask for guidance so directly, Tom. There's been enough forces fiddling with your timeline."

"Forces?" he questioned, raising an eyebrow.

"Forces. You couldn't possibly understand it, dearie. You know, all that wibbly wobbly, time wimey stuff." she laughed, and winked as if she'd made a great joke.

"Wrong dimension, love." replied one of the other women, and the first woman stopped her laughing.

"Oh yeah."

"What?" asked Tom, as bemused as he always was in this place.

"Nevermind, Tom. The point is, we can't just tell you what to do. It'd break too many rules, you see."

"There are rules?" he asked.

"Oh yes, lots. Can't tell you them, mind. It's against the rules." she grinned.

"Well what can you tell me?" he demanded, growing irritated.

The fates tsked at him as one.

"Now, now." said the one in the middle. As far as Tom knew, they didn't have names. "Don't be such a grumpy pants."

"I'm a fucking Dark Lord!" he barked in exasperation.

"You're a toddler." said the same woman, narrowing her eyes. "I've watched you come into this world, and I have watched you leave it – over and over and over again, in an infinite number of ways. Watch your tone."

Voldemort bit the inside of his mouth, and once again marvelled at the fates ability to rattle him. Still, it wouldn't do to irk them. When they're pissed of with you, you know it.

The woman to the left sighed, and lifted her arms in a defeated manner.

"Come now, boy. Don't pout. We'll give you a little of the gossip, if it'll make you smile."

Tom raised an eyebrow. He didn't smile, but he managed not to say that out loud.

"Your campaigns are going to go very well, for quite a bit. As you know, your life will be remembered throughout history."

Voldemort nodded. He'd been told this by the fates many times before, but it never hurt to hear it again.

"Ah, but this time, there is something new. Someone new. Threads once broken have realigned"

His head jerked up with an uncharacteristic shock. It wasn't often the fates spoke so directly.  
"We're feeling talkative..." whispered the right fate conspiratively, as she played with a yo-yo.

"Who?"

"You know him. The one with the power to defeat you, Tommie. Born as the seventh month died. You shall mark him as your equal, but he shall have powers that you know not, my dear. Neither of you may live, while the other survives."

Adrenaline pumped through his system. Death. They were talking about death, and someone that was stronger than he. Who? He thought on it, and it wasn't long before killing-curse green eyes swam into his mind. The boy. The boy his horcrux had become so very attached to.

"I shall have to kill him," he said, more to himself than the fates. "Destroy him before he's grown."

The fates shook their heads as one, knowing smiles playing across their ancient faces.  
"No, my dear, I wouldn't do that. I've seen you make that mistake a few times"

"I shall not allow a threat to my reign go on," he said, resolved. He'd killed for far, far less.

"Oh, my dear, sweet Riddle." said the centre fate.

Suddenly, the room shifted. The three fates converged into one, and the blue of the room seemed to melt away. He felt as though he were floating again, in a void that was at once without colour, and yet not dark. The faces of the fates were now one, and the face they had chosen was that of his Mother. They had worn the faces of people he'd known before, but never this. Merope Gaunt, reanimated.

"The boy will grow, in many ways," the voice echoed, full of ominous power. "He must be allowed to grow into a man without your influence. He will always be a threat to you, Voldemort. He always has been. The two of you are linked through all of time and space – always – your destinies are forever entwined. Your threads are tangled,"

Suddenly, Voldemort couldn't breathe. Images of him, of the boy – a man in most - but they were disjointed. The images were packed with emotions he could no longer feel. He felt winded, he felt angry.

"So long as he lives, Tom, your reign will never be sure. However, if he were to die before the time is right?" the voice seemed to be whispering to him now. "Then you will never have lived at all."

His lungs, that seemed to have been frozen, suddenly regained the ability to breathe. Unfortunately, his first breath in was a mouthful of icy water. Voldemort spluttered and gasped as his head broke the surface of the water, choking in the most undignified way. Damn the fates, and damn their cryptic messages. He knew now that the boy – Harry Potter – was important to his future, and yet he didn't know how. He had to keep the boy alive, and couldn't influence his growth, but he was still a danger to him. It was far too confusing. He had never allowed a threat to him remain breathing, and the feeling was an uncomfortable one. There was also a part of him that doubted the prophecy. The boy he'd met had been impressive, but not on par with him, the Dark Lord. What possible power could the scrawny, scared child he'd met have that he did not?

His thoughts were broken like glass is shattered, by the piercing noise of shouts and screams. Somewhere in the forest, there were people in pain. Who had been foolish enough to venture into this forest on the night of a blood moon? He'd leave the idiots to their punishment, of course. Yet, a vague prickly sensation ran across his skin and made him pause. Slipping back into the concentration that had allowed him to complete the spell, he scoured his mind for an answer. There was a fluttering of panic, scratching at the corners of his subconscious. Terror, even. Pain. He recognised it as the faint echo of what had once been a clear signal; the same signal that had been silenced by his horcrux, years before. Harry Potter. Harry Potter was there, and by the sounds of it, about to die.

The Dark Lord put on his robes, picked up his wand, and disapparrated to the source of the sound.

* * *

Harry had come across the ritual in a book that he definitely shouldn't have had, in a place he really shouldn't have been, with the man he really couldn't be dating.

When Harry had first begun his haphazard trips into the muggle world, it had been a huge culture shock. Although he spoke the same language as the muggles, their idioms and usage of said language left him quite in the dark. He'd nearly cursed the first car he saw; saved only at the last moment, by remembering it from one of the muggle magazines in the marauder room. Machines the likes of which he had never seen before were a constant saw of awe to him. There were machines that dispensed money, using little plastic tokens. There were machines that allowed people to travel from place to place; cars and trains and buses. They even had a train that was underground. They even used machines to speak to each other, writing messages and sending them through the air to each other. He had a hard time believing that there was no magic involved in that. Their clothes were also strange. They wore 'jeans' and 'hoodies' and hats that didn't seem to serve any actual purpose. All in all, although amazing, his first venture had left him wanting to do nothing more than run home.

Determined not to actually run back to safety like a coward, he'd slowly acclimated himself to muggle London. Eventually, he had found the one place where he felt truly comfortable, a muggle library. He'd spent hours in there, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible, learning everything he could about muggle culture. His reading was very broad at first, everything from washing machines to feminism to the history of trains; it was all knew to him, it was all fascinating.  
After three days of sneaking into the muggle world at every given opportunity, spending hours pouring over the books, he'd looked up to find a man smiling indulgently at him. The man was tall, with red hair and brown eyes and an easy smile; he seemed to work there, given the name of the library was printed on his shirt. It had begun with Michael telling him that he was in fact allowed to take books out of the library, with Harry blushing and stuttering a response, surprised at his own attraction the man. It had continued with coffee – a disgusting muggle drink that Michael had laughed at when he'd visibly cringed when trying – and a movie (in a muggle 'cinema'). It had ended, a few short weeks of dating later, with Harry going back to Michael's house, and finding out that magic was the only thing that muggle men were lacking. They weren't quite boyfriends, and they weren't quite casual; Harry couldn't tell Michael about the magical world, and Michael seemed to have secrets of his own. He was only nineteen and lived alone, and never mentioned family. He couldn't say that he loved the man yet, but the thought of him brought a tingly warmth to Harry, and for now that was enough.

When Michael and he had known he other for about a month, he had let Harry into the back rooms of the library. Harry was pretty sure this had been with the intention for illicit activities – Michael was a bit of an exhibitionist – but of course, he'd just been distracted by the books. Piles and piles of dusty texts that had been pulled from the shelves due to their lack of use or unpopularity. Their disuse gave them a certain mystique, and to Michael's ire, he spent several hours going through the titles and looking for anything new about the muggle world that he hadn't already learned. The purpose of the search meant that when he did finally did find something interesting, it was of a most unexpected nature. For one thing, it definitely wasn't muggle, and for another, it definitely wasn't English. He'd sat on the filthy floor and stared at the book 'Strengthening Rituals' with no listed author, for a good while before Michael had finally noticed and got curious.

"Yeah, that books a weird one. No idea what language it's written in, but I don't reckon it's any. Can't bring myself to throw it away though – it looks too cool." he said, snaking his arms around Harry's waist and resting his head against the back of Harry's neck.

"Yeah, weird. Can I have it?" he asked, bluntly. This book shouldn't be left around muggles, even if they couldn't understand it. Flicking through it, he saw that it contained some very dark, very old magic. The magic was so old that it deserved a k. Magick.

"Why? It's just weird lines and dots? I checked, it isn't in any language," Michael asked, puzzled.

What Michael didn't know was that it was actually written in Parseltongue, which made it extremely rare and extremely valuable. Harry had only seen one other book written in the tongue, and it had been worth several thousand galleons. Not that Harry intended to sell this.

"I dunno. I just like it, and no one is using it," he shrugged.

"Alright, sure. Consider it a gift. Great for me, considering it's free," he laughed and winked.

Harry had shortly after made his excuses to return home. Partly because term had started, and they were bound to start noticing him going missing at Hogwarts, but mostly so he could read his new treasure.

The book contained many rituals. All of them a little dark, but some were downright sinister. He was the best in the school at Dark Arts, and even he felt a little sick holding the tome; 'dark magic reflux' as Professor Crouch jokingly called the side effects of over-exposure to dark items. However, he didn't let that stop him from thoroughly reading every single page. These were rituals that could permanently change the nature of your magical core, and make you stronger. They were exactly what he needed to give him an edge for the IDC. It wasn't as if blood rituals had never been used before, and they certainly weren't against the rules; not in the new world, where talent of any kind was appreciated, and ideas of 'fairness' were a little more ambiguous. The one he had chosen to start with seemed easy enough. It required a blood sacrifice, which Harry thought a deer would do for. The worst that could happen would be that it wouldn't work, so what did he have to lose? Hence the reason for calling his friends into the woods. They knew it was a ritual, and that it had to do with the IDS, but he'd kept all other details private. If successful, the ritual would allow him to use leglimency without the need for direct eye contact and with far greater ease. It seemed simple, and a good shortcut to say it was one of the few arts he struggled with.

So when the blood moon finally began to make it's appearance, Harry arranged his friends into a circle. He had chosen these four because he trusted them, and because they roughly corresponded to the element that they represented. Blaise (appropriately, given his name) represented fire, Draco was water, Dean was Earth and Theo was Air. Old magic often used elementals to channel the sentient magic of each. It was something they wouldn't study until seventh year, and even then as an elective. It was a tricky bit of magic, but he was confident. After instructing the boys to focus entirely on their personal element, he went and fetched the deer he'd tied up for the purposes of sacrifice. It was happily sat by a tree, and Harry almost felt a bit guilty, but he'd selected an old doe with very little natural life span left. It wasn't like he was a vegetarian either. He even answered the same protests to Theo, before silencing him by pointing out he'd been eating venison just last week.  
Then he'd cast the circle.

Strangely, the incantations necessary to begin the ritual were Greek. It was also a lengthy thing; it'd taken him several days to memorise the whole piece with the correct pronunciation. As he spoke, the circle became a visible thing – a silver light connecting the five – and through it he could feel his friends. He could sense their lives, to put it simply. It was an odd feeling, as if he wasn't quite alone in his own skull. Brighter and brighter it glower, and when he finished speaking, it was a dazzling thing that illuminated the stunned deer in the centre of the circle. In a swift movement, he stepped forward and slit the animals throat, letting it's life blood drip and soak into the thirsty earth. As it did so, he spoke:

"I offer this life, and in return, beg for transcendence," he said, solemnly and in English.

Now what should have happened next, is that the animal would turn to dust, and the circle would begin to fade as he felt a new power seeping through his skin and into his magical core.  
The animal did turn to dust, and the circle did disappear – suddenly, instead of fading – and Harry felt no such power. He sighed, and his friends shrugged apologetically. It obviously hadn't worked. It must have been done incorrectly, or broken at the wrong time, or -

Theodore screamed. Theodore screamed and fell to the ground writhing and coughing.

"It's in me!" he shouted. "It's.. it's in my skin! It's in my skin!"

Draco tried to pull the boy up, to see what was wrong and what was 'in his skin', but before he could, he too fell to the ground. In mere moments, all but Harry were bent double, gasping and moaning and clutching their heads.

"I can't hear! I can't – I can't hear!" screamed Draco.

"Where is he?" asked Blaise, his eyes has turned a misty white. "Where is he?"

"Kill it! Kill it… Kill the thing.. in me.." shouted Dean, who was struggling to rise.

Harry was terrified. Desperate and terrified. He rolled Draco, who was face down and gasping in the dirt onto his back. He couldn't see anything wrong, there were no marks, nothing 'in him'. Except… Except there was. When Harry touched the clammy skins of his friends, he could sense something akin to a web. A sticky web made of darkest magic, and Harry knew in his heart that whatever it was, it was killing them. It was draining them away.  
He couldn't think straight. He didn't know what to do. He dashed to his bag, that was laying against a tree some feet away and tried to block out the moans of his friends. He pulled out 'Strengthening Rituals' and turned to the page that he'd found the ritual on. There was nothing there, nothing about undoing the incantation once complete. Harry whimpered, desperately afraid for his friends. Fuck, what had he done? Why was this happening?  
On a chance, for his mind hadn't really been clear enough to go looking, Harry's eyes skimmed the back page of the book. In small writing, barely legible, it said: "For when you have done the unforgivable. Take heed, there is no going back." Just below it was a spell. A spell with no explanation, or warning. It wasn't as if Harry had any choice however; the screams of his friends were fading, and not in the sense that they were recovering. He had so little time and no options left. He lifted his wand, and cast the spell.

The effect was instantaneous. Four screams became one, and it took him a few moments to process that those screams were his own. Paralysing fear gripped him; pain ripped through his body, and it felt as though his skin was crackling. His magic was pulsing, resisting, but ultimately dimming. He'd taken the magic from them. He had taken their pain. He was glad that he had; rather him than them. Still, he wished more than anything that there was another way. The locket had become icy cold around his neck, and he was dimly aware of his friends shaking him, casting healing charms, even sending a signalling patronous to Hogwarts. He also knew that they would be too late. He was dying. The magic had turned against him, and was destroying him from the inside.  
His consciousness began to fade in and out. Draco's distraught face, Blaise holding him to him and begging him not to die. He wished he could say goodbye to Hermione. She was his sister in all but blood. He hoped she'd be okay. He must have said something to that effect, because he was dimly aware of Draco vowing to protect her. He was muttering nonsense and nothings, promising to marry her and bring her under the Malfoy name. Blaise said something about naming his first born Harold, so Harry HAD to stay alive to see that.

And then. Then everything changed. There was a loud popping sound, and Harry vaguely remembered once knowing what made that sound. He'd made it himself. There was a fuzzy figure – it seemed the charm that corrected his vision was breaking – in a black cloak. Harry wasn't in pain any more, he just felt cold and floaty. So he didn't really register when the figure knelt by him, when his body was bathed in brilliant blue light. He didn't register that the calm, authoritative voice that was saving him was speaking Parseltongue. He didn't notice until suddenly he began to feel less like he was dying. He didn't notice until he could once again feel his arms, and his vision cleared, and the memory of the last hour returned.

Yet, he was sure this couldn't be real. Surely he was still in the fever dreams of death. For why had he just been saved by Lord Voldemort? Why were red eyes looking at him with a shadow of what once could have been called fear? This didn't last long, however. Harry quickly regained full consciousness, and the fearful red eyes quickly changed to rage.


	13. Bite

**6th October 1996**

Consciousness did not come to Harry quickly that day. Every time he felt some vague awareness of himself, of the wakened world, exhaustion would drag him back to the murky lands of sleep. He didn't know how long he had rested for, and he didn't care. There was a deep, aching weariness to his body that Harry felt too sharply whenever he came near to opening his eyes, and so he dozed on and on. The more he slept, the more vivid and intrusive his dreams became. He dreamt of darkened forests, and of his friends screaming. He dreamt of ancient magicks, and a Dark Lord. He dreamt of a stag and a doe, watching him from an unassailable cliff top; inexplicably, this was the most haunting of the nightmares. He dreamed.

It seemed a lifetime later that voices broke through the haze. His hearing came into focus with jarring agility, and he could feel the bed beneath him. It wasn't his bed, Harry noted in confusion. A moment of listening, breathing, identified it as a bed in the hospital wing. He kept his eyes closed as he tried to remember the events that had lead him to be there. The voices continued.

"-effective. He shouldn't suffer any permanent damage, but it'll be a while before he's back to his usual self."

Harry recognised the voice, and placed it a moment later as belonging to Professor Crouch. This had to be serious, for his head of house to be at his bedside.

"The foolish little twit," said another voice, higher. Bellatrix, Harry realised. "I thought we'd taught him better than to play around with magic beyond his comprehension."

Shifting. They were sitting down, Harry imagined. He stayed very still, curious to hear more of their conversation. He had mastered the art of feigning sleep, long ago in Malfoy Orphanage.

"He did very well, all things considered," continued Crouch. "To get the ritual to activate at all? It's a serious feat of magic. Complex magic."

"The fact the boy is powerful has never been in doubt, Barty," said Bellatrix, scoffing. "Or clever enough. It's his lack of common sense that is concerning."

"Well, it's not like we've never played around with dark magic, Bella," reasoned Crouch, obviously trying to defend him.

"We were older. And more prepared. And more careful," Bellatrix's voice was hard, an angry edge to it now. "Harry is still just a boy, no matter his skill. A foolish boy making foolish mistakes."

"I wonder what this foolish mistake will cost him," responded Crouch, thoughtfully. Sadly.

There was a quiet moment, and Harry wondered if they'd noticed his wakefulness. They seemed not to have, however, as they continued a moment later.  
"The Dark Lord was furious," Crouch stated, worry evident. "I've not seen him that angry in a long time."

"Well, we nearly lost a handful of decent wizards in the forest that night. We were very close to losing the most powerful young wizard currently at Hogwarts, too."

"It still seemed an extreme response. Do you think that's the only reason for his ire?"

"I don't see why there would be another," said Bellatrix, admonishingly. She seemed unusually sane today. "Do you?"

No answer. Harry assumed Crouch had shaken his head, for the conversation lulled there. He waited a few moments, ensuring there was nothing else to hear, and then made a show of opening his eyes slowly and sitting up.

"Mr Potter," came the derisive voice of Bellatrix. "Glad to see you've finally chosen to join us in the land of the living."

"Harry? How are you feeling?" asked Crouch, gently.

"I'm..." he didn't know how to answer that question. He expected to feel pain, or aching. The events of the forest had come flooding back to him during his eavesdropping, and he knew just how close he had been to his death. He expected some lingering effects, but there was nothing really. "… thirsty."

Crouch smiled grimly, and conjured a glass of water that Harry accepted gratefully. Taking in his surroundings, he noted that the hospital wing was empty but for him, and it was sometime around midday.  
"How long did I sleep for?" he asked, confused by the hour.

"Just under two days," responded Crouch. Harry blanched.

"Two days?!" he shook his head, perturbed. A lot could have happened in two days, in the aftermath of that ritual. Even if it hadn't, it took him two days closer to the preliminary rounds of the IDC. Bellatrix was still sat down, but was staring at him intensely. She shook her head, clearly irritated.

"Those are the consequences of nearly killing yourself, Potter. You should be grateful your 'rest' wasn't of a more permanent kind," she said, acidly.

"Are they alright?" he demanded, not taking his eyes from Bella. "Draco and Blaise? The others?"

"They're fine, Harry," responded Crouch, evenly. "They were in the hospital wing for a night, but they're otherwise recovered. You were exposed to the effects of dark magic for longer, and with far greater intensity."

"Oh," he nodded, soothed. Or at least, soothed until his next thought occurred to him. "The Dark Lord? He was there, I think. I'm sure he was there."

Bellatrix, eyes hard, nodded. "He will speak to you tonight, provided you're strong enough to leave your bed by then."

Harry almost said something. He almost opened his mouth to express his shock, or his fear, at the prospect of meeting Voldemort once again – but then he didn't. He nodded solemnly. "I feel fine," he said, his voice even. "Of course, I expect to answer to our Lord for my stupidity in this matter."

Bellatrix's expression held, and then softened. If Harry didn't know better, he'd almost think she cared for him, in her own, mad way. "If only you'd shown such maturity two days ago." With that, she stood. Professor Crouch followed her lead, giving Harry a last, lingering look.

"You're my favourite student, you know," he remarked, earnestly. "Try not to get yourself killed, tinkering with things better left alone."

Bellatrix glanced back at Crouch, from where she had been on her way to the door. "Honestly, Barty. You're beginning to sound like bloody Dumbeldore," she rolled her eyes, and laughed. "I'll let your friends know you're awake, Potter. I know my Hermione is just dying to hex you into another coma."

And with that last worrying statement, the two teachers swept out of the room, wry smiles on their lips as they did.

* * *

Harry didn't have to wait long for the arrival of his friends. Just twenty minutes later, Hermione, Draco and Blaise arrived; their expressions a sight to behold. Harry was just glad he'd had the foresight to get dressed, and ready to go. It would have been unnerving to face them in only his bedclothes.

"Harry James Potter," began Hermione, her eyes a furious storm. "How could you be so bloody idiotic? Do you have any idea-"

"Hermione," he interrupted, nervously. Dark forces were nothing compared to this witch when she was angry. "Would you mind if we had this discussion outside? I've been in bed for far too long, and it looks like a nice day." Hermione opened her mouth to argue, then shut it, before gesturing at the door with no small amount of aggression. Ducking his head, he lead the way out of the hospital wing and into the corridors, until they were safely in a deserted courtyard behind the castle. He took a seat on a nearby stone-bench. The three of them remained standing. "You were saying?" he gestured.

"I don't understand why you would do something so… so..." she seemed to be at a loss for words, gesticulating wildly.

"Reckless." finished Blaise, eyes hard.

"That's one word for it," murmured Draco.

Harry bowed his head, accepting the criticism. If anything, he deserved worse. "You're right, all of you," he looked first at Draco and then at Blaise. "I put your lives in danger for my own gain. I didn't know it would be so dangerous, of course, but that's no excuse. My reckless, idiotic, foolhardy attempt at a ritual I knew little about almost cost you both your lives. For that, I am truly, deeply sorry. I don't expect your forgiveness."  
As he said these words, he realised just how true they were. He had almost killed some of his closest friends, and he doubted they could forgive him that. They had trusted him, almost blindly, and that trust had turned out to be most unfounded. The shame he felt was all consuming at this.

Blaise raised an eyebrow, Hermione scoffed, but it was Draco who's outburst surprised Harry the most.  
"Killed us? Almost killed us? Harry, what about yourself?" Draco was very nearly shouting, and it was all Harry could do to stare up at him, bewildered. Draco looked like he might curse him. "I know you would never done that ritual if you had known it could backfire on us. Accidents happen with magic, and you couldn't have known it would do that, stupid as it might be to attempt it. But you did know how dangerous it could be for you, didn't you?"

Harry just blinked up at them, wondering how they could be so angry at him for self-endangerment when he had almost lead them to their deaths.  
"The Dark Lord spoke to us, after you passed out in the clearing," said a marginally calmer Blaise. "Read a little from that book, though I think it was more to himself than to us. It said that the ritual was incredibly dangerous to the recipient. That it could cause permanent, devestating damage in some cases."

"It said 'in rare cases'" Harry responded, feebly.

The next moment was a blur for Harry, as Blaise picked him up by his collar and slammed him against the wall behind the bench. He'd never noticed exactly how much taller Blaise had gotten over the last year, or how much muscle was beneath his lithe figure, until he had experienced his head smacking heavily against the stone. Hermione was trying to pull him away, to no avail. Blaise was positively snarling.

"If you don't care about your life, Harry, fine. But you could at least show some modicum of respect for the people that do. You always have to be the fearless fucking hero, and you don't think twice about how it could affect us." With that, Blaise released him and immediately turned to walk away. Draco followed him, sneering in a way Harry had never been on the receiving end of from him.

Hermione lingered for a moment more, and all Harry wanted was to go somewhere and be left alone to rot in his own self-hatred. He was not generally an angsty teen, but the weight of Blaise's words was making his throat burn and his eyes itch.

"He's right, you know," whispered Hermione, her eyes red around the edges in a way that made his stomach wrench. "You've always been throwing yourself into the way of danger, risking your life for anything and everything. And worse lately. Entering that competition, even though you're far too young. This. You've been disappearing a lot lately too, and I know you're hiding something big from us all." she sighed, shaking her head. "We love you, Harry. But sometimes, you're such a selfish fool."

Then she left him too, and Harry was left feeling more hollow than he could ever recalling feeling before.

* * *

So much so was Harry's sorrow, that he could not summon the usual fear that went along with meeting the Dark Lord. In the hours before, he killed time out of impatience, rather than anxiety. He avoided Gryffindor tower, wanting to avoid Blaise until after he'd been dealt with by Voldemort. He also avoided the Great Hall and the Kitchens, not daring to eat anything in case he was subject to the cruciatus, or some other punishment. Instead, he ghosted about the castle, keeping his eyes down and his posture uninviting. He visited Ember, who had noticed his absense and was not pleased by it. Luckily, the castle was filled with enough mice for her to please herself, but she still seemed very shaken. On questioning, she said something about a snake king, that it was stirring in the bowels of the castle. He hadn't been able to get a coherent explanation out of her though, and he wondered if it were possible for a snake to have nightmares. He'd left her with promises of rodent treats and time spent nested in his bed, which seemed to placate her.

By the time he wandered back up to the hospital wing, he found Professor Snape (of all people) waiting for him.  
"The Dark Lord requires your presence...Immediately," sneered Snape. They had never been fond of each other, although Harry felt he had softened towards him as he got older. This softening was not in evidence today, however, and he wondered how many more people were angry with him today.

Harry nodded, following Snape from the room and falling into step behind him. It was several minutes before he realised their route was to the Headmistresses office, and he supposed that made sense. He still couldn't muster the appropriate trepidation. Of course the Dark Lord could hurt him, but he may have just lost his closest friends, and physical pain seemed so insignificant in comparison. They climbed the set of spiral stairs up to the office, and Snape knocked once and waited. An involuntary shiver went down Harry's spine at the cold, authoritative male voice that summoned them inside. Perhaps he was able to feel fear. even in his sombre state then.

Bellatrix was not present in her office when Harry and the Professor entered. In her place, alone in the room, was Voldemort. The Dark Lord was stood at the centre of the room, his expression impassive. Harry found himself studying every feature of the man; his light brown hair, so much more controlled than his own; his bright blue eyes, icy as ever. Today, he looked every inch a Dark Lord, in his black robes and deep green cloak. His snake, Nagini, was a few meters away, sleeping by the window. He had the surprising and ridiculous thought that he should have brought Ember, who might like another snake for company. The ridiculous thought soon left his mind, however, when Voldemort looked at him. No matter how many times he met the wizard, he had the unnerving ability to make his whole body go hot and cold, all at once.

He did nothing but make impassive eye contact with Harry, until Harry finally looked away, directing his gaze instead at the floor. He glanced up when a chair was summoned, and swallowed heavily as Voldemort gestured for him to take a seat.

Harry took a deep, steadying breath once seated, daring himself to look back at the man that was now stood above him. The difference could have only been a few feet, but he seemed to tower over Harry, making him feel young and smaller. Harry tried to envision a time when he wouldn't feel like falling to his knees before this man, and couldn't manage it. Whether it was conditioning, cowardice, or an innate sense of self-preservation – he wasn't sure.

"Harry Potter. Once again, you have managed to draw my attention," came the silky, yet malevolent tone. It was clear from his tenor that he did not see this attention as positive.

"Yes, my Lord," Harry said, submissively. He didn't take his eyes from the floor, fearing that a false move might cause Voldemort to strike out at him. A scoff, however, made him glance up.

"Again and again, you disappoint me. I find you performing a ritual steeped in dark magic, a ritual that involves blood sacrifice and a complex understanding of unbound magical principles. I find you attempting what lesser wizards couldn't fathom, couldn't even imagine – and yet – summoned before me, you behave like a thrashed schoolboy in detention," Voldemort's words rang of disdain, as if Harry's obsequiousness had literally disgusted him. Bewildered and irritated, Harry didn't know how to respond.

"I am a schoolboy, my Lord. I _feel_ thrashed after that ritual went awry. If Bellatrix's ire is anything to go by, I very well could be in detention. I don't know how you want me to behave, but I'm just trying to avoid a green curse and a shallow grave." Harry meant for these words to sound strong, but his voice was too shaky to manage it.

Voldemort held his gaze levelly, and it took Harry a moment to realise that he was successfully making prolonged eye contact. Salazar, how did that man make blue eyes look like flames? So beautiful and deadly. Harry froze again. Had he really just thought of the leader of the wizarding world as beautiful? He was going mad. Voldemort was only beautiful in the way a storm could be, or a raging sea, or a predator ready to strike. He thanked whatever Gods there may be that the man before him couldn't read his mind, and wondered again at the uniqueness of that.

"You're obviously not too fond of self-preservation, boy," drawled Voldemort, obviously nonplussed about his outburst. "You did almost get yourself killed."

"I didn't think it would kill me," Harry responded, sulkily. He dropped his eyes as he said this, surely very interested in his own shoes.

"You knew it may kill you," the Dark Lord pointed out, with a neutrality that almost concealed his curiosity.

"I didn't think it likely. The research I'd done suggested the chance of death was inversely proportional to magical ability," he said to Voldemort's shoes.  
Without warning, his chin was gripped firmly between the thumb and forefinger of Voldemort's hand; his face forced up to meet Voldemort's eyes. The locket suddenly felt warmer against his skin, tingly even.

_"And you are so very sure of your abilities, child? Sure enough to risk your life, to risk your friends lives?"_

Harry knew immediately that he'd switched to parseltongue, and did the same. He supposed bonding with Ember had done the trick quite well. " _I had no intention in risking their lives!"_ Harry began, losing his temper. " _I would not pay that kind of price for power."_

Voldemort narrowed his eyes, and then made a disgusted sound and switched back to English. "You know, I actually believe that. How very disappointing."

Drawing away from him, the Dark Lord gestured to Snape, who was still stood behind Harry. He came into view, throwing Harry a vaguely nervous glance that he found perplexing. It took him a moment to realise Snape hadn't known that Harry was a parseltongue, and given it was reputed to be a skill belonging only to Voldemort, he must have found it unnerving. He couldn't help but be a little pleased, given that he was amongst Harry's least favourite Professors.

"Severus," Voldemort began, his tone suddenly businesslike. "Mr. Potter came into possession of a most interesting book. Whilst I don't favour using dark magic irresponsibly, I did not bring him here merely to scold him." The Dark Lord looked over Harry once more, solemn and considering. "I searched the world for that book, and I would be most interested to find how it came into his care. I am unable to leglimens him, and so you will find this information for me."

Severus balked. "My Lord, surely if someone of your superior skills cannot-"

"The block has nothing to do with the boys occlumency skills, Severus. You will ask no further questions." The Dark Lord's tone left no room for argument, and his cold authority was not something any sane wizard would challenge.

Harry jolted. "You're going to have him enter my mind?"

"Yes," the Dark Lord responded, simply.

" _Why not just ask me?"_ he demanded, having the sense to switch languages before challenging him. Voldemort raised an eyebrow, and his lips curved with wry amusement.

" _You expect me to believe that you would tell the truth?"  
_  
 _"I wouldn't lie to you, My Lord,"_ Harry lied. Of course he would lie in this situation, but he was staring at a noose. It was expressly forbidden to enter the muggle world, but a relationship with a muggle was unthinkable. He thought of Michael, and wondered how this could end for him.

"Liar," Voldemort responded in English, his eyes narrowing, "Severus?"

Harry felt his skin prickle with the icy heat of impending terror. His mind and heart were racing with roughly equal speed. He hadn't even considered that the Dark Lord would question where the book had come from. He could be – probably would be – executed for this. Michael might even die for it, knowing the distaste of ordinary wizards for muggle kind. Sleeping with a muggle was so deeply perverse in the eyes of the public, that even if he didn't die, he'd be ruined.

"No," Harry began, his eyes wide with terror. "Please, my Lord. I'll… I'll never try a ritual like that again. I'll never step out of line again, just please, don't."

He had begun to stand without noticing it, his eyes flicking to the door in an automatic flight response. Voldemort rolled his eyes, and with a flick of his wrist, Harry found himself bound to the chair and unable to reach his wand or flee.

Snape, who had merely watched this display dispassionately, stood before him. "Don't fight it, Potter, or this will only be worse for you."

Harry looked up, hoping to plead with Snape, only to feel as if he had been dipped into warm water.

_Draco and Blaise laughing in second year, trying some sweets that made their skin turn varying neon shades. He was turning purple._

Shuffling through his mind. A strange sensation, like files being flicked through hurriedly.

Fourth year. _He was winning at Quidditch. He loved this game. Slytherin was ninety points behind, and the wind was in his hair. He was soaring. Draco's Father is in the crowd. Draco looks like he's giving up. This is the first match his Father has been to. He saw the snitch. He pretended not to. Slytherin won._

More shuffling, moments of his life passing by quicker than he could hold onto. He was feeling sea-sick.

_On his knees at the Dark Lord's feet at Malfoy Manor. He's beautiful. He's terrifying. How did he become so powerful? Is he even human? I want to be like him. Except I don't. I don't want to be lonely. I wonder if he gets lonely? I wonder if he feels emotions like other people? The curve of his mouth is so perfect. I want him to bite me. He looks like he bites._

A pause. More memories, and then slowing. Slowing down and watching.

_He was in Michael's arms. They'd just had sex on the futon, and he'd turned on the bright screen thing that muggles called a television. It was interesting. He was going to stay over tonight. It wasn't like anyone would notice his absence from the castle if he got back for breakfast. He wanted to read the book though, he'd not had a chance to yet…_

The rest of the memories blurred by in a moment, like once they'd been located, it was simple to just pull out the correct strand and take the information required quicker than they actually played out.

Harry came back to his body, finding himself still tied to the chair and sweating. It felt like both hours and mere moments had passed, which was disorientating in itself. Neither the Dark Lord, nor Snape was looking at him. It took Harry a while to conclude that Voldemort was taking the memories from Snape, as simply as Snape had taken them from Harry. Dread curled in his stomach; a tight, sour knot that seemed to cripple his ability to breathe properly or think logically. These could be his final moments.

It didn't take nearly long enough for Voldemort to break off contact with Snape. Harry kept his eyes resolutely closed and his head bowed. His hope being that, if he were to look submissive enough, the Dark Lord would find him too lowly to bother murdering. Voldemort's voice was surprisingly calm when he spoke next, though this wasn't to him. He dismissed Snape, warning him to not speak of what had happened tonight. Snape gave a perfunctory farewell and Harry heard the door close as he left.

"Open your eyes, boy," Voldemort ordered, impatiently.

He did so, but really wished he didn't have to. He was surprised to see the Dark Lord appearing not angry, but rather considering.

"You found the book in the muggle world."

It was not a question, but Harry answered it anyway. "Yes, my Lord."

"In a muggle library. How very bizarre," Voldemort began to pace around him, and he was suddenly more aware of the rope holding him to the chair.

"Yes… I.. I thought it best to remove it from there, my Lord."

"Indeed. Give much consideration to the secrecy of our world, child?"

Harry swallowed heavily, unsure of how to respond. "I… My Lord, I'm sorry-"

"You're sorry that I caught you," chided the Dark Lord. "You are not sorry that you did it. Your memories reveal quite a disturbing lack of distaste for muggle kind."

"They're… they're not so unlike us, my Lord."

It was a stupid thing to say, and he knew it before he'd even opened his mouth. What more could he do, though? He had to come up with some sort of defence, for flagrantly disregarding the laws of the land. Laws made by the very intimidating wizard who currently had him bound to a chair.

"They are," Voldemort responded, his voice still calm, but firm, almost fierce. "They are so very different to us, boy, in ways you cannot yet begin to imagine."

Harry nodded, conceding the argument he knew it would not do to win.

"You nod, but you do not agree with me. You think your muggle lover proves that they are not the monsters you were told about, and in a way, you are right." Harry looked up, surprised by the admission. "In truth, they are far worse than the fairy tale villains your carers told you about from the crib," his voice was filled with a thinly veiled hatred. He leaned back again Bellatrix's desk, considering him. "You are not an ordinary young man, Harry Potter."

"I am, My Lord, I-"

"Shut up, and do not presume to argue with me," his voice was firm, and his blue eyes hard. "You are special, for reasons I do not care to explain. And you should thank the stars that you are, for anyone else who had committed the crimes you have would not find me to be so merciful."

Mercy? Harry breathed an internal sigh of relief. It would seem that he would not die today, although he couldn't think why.

"I can see you have an enquiring mind. This is something I value," he flicked his wrists as he said this, banishing the ropes around him. "Incredibly useful in a follower, but devastating in an enemy. You do not want to be my enemy, do you, Harry?"

"No, my Lord," he agreed instantly.

"When the international duelling competition is over, I will make sure you understand exactly why we do not mix with muggle kind. Until then, you will not set foot in the muggle world. Do you understand?"

"Yes, my Lord."

"Disobey me now, and I will make sure that the temptation to do so is removed. Do you understand?"

Harry nodded numbly, the threat apparent. If he were to try to see Michael again, then Michael would pay the price for his foolishness. He couldn't take that kind of risk.

"I will also explain to you exactly how you went wrong with that ritual. It was a rather pathetic attempt, given you had more than enough capability to complete it. I can only assume your mistake with the sacrifice came from some childish scruple about spilling human blood."

Harry's eyes widened and at once he did understand, at least partially. The problem hadn't been with the ritual in itself, but the sacrifice he had used. Animal blood could not be used for something as dark as that.

"Thank you, my Lord," and he meant it.

"Good. Now get out, and try not to draw my attention again any time soon."

Harry nodded and stood up, thanking the Gods that he didn't seem to be shaking as much as he expected he would be. He couldn't believe he'd made it through this ordeal without even a cruciatus, and wondered again at what the Dark Lord had meant by 'special'. He had almost made it to the door when Voldemort spoke once more.

"Oh, and Harry?" Harry turned back, to the unnerving spectacle of the Dark Lord smirking, his eyes sparkling with mirth.

"Yes, my Lord?"

"Be careful. _I do bite_."


	14. Chapter 14: Courting and Competition

**Chapter 14**

Draco Malfoy woke up that morning with a sense of purpose. It was an important day in many respects; the sort of day where just about anything could happen. He dressed carefully in his second-best robes, the calming light filtering through the lake into the dungeon windows soothing him. By the time he had showered, dressed and left the dungeons, he had a quiet air of determination about his shoulders.   
  
Striding towards the Slytherin table - named such only for it's colours these days, given inter-house mixing at breakfast was very common – he caught sight of her hair before he registered the first target of his determination. Less bushy and wild than it had been in her early years of Hogwarts, Hermione Black was nonetheless still quite recognisable by her curly mane of brunette locks. Today it fell to her lower back; this was unusual, given she most often tied it up and away from her face. Today, of course, was not just an ordinary day for any of them. Many students across the Great Hall looked a little more groomed than usual; the day's events prompting far more hair-care related spells and the odd acne-related glamour than one would usually find in a school. Sparing no time to allow himself to fret, he walked directly to where the witch was enjoying a light breakfast of croissants and grapefruit, and sat across from her. She looked up from the book she had been reading, her face a picture of quiet surprise.

“Miss Black,” he begun, his voice steadier than he felt. “I have a proposition for you.”

The proposition was part of a plan he had been going over in his mind for weeks now, ever since his Father had announced his intention for the two of them to be betrothed. He paid no attention to the beating of his heart, and pushed on. It was, he did say so himself, a well made plan after all.  
  
Hermione shut her book, offering him her full attention. “Oh?”   
  
“I propose,” he continued, pausing for dramatic effect. He'd spent weeks perfecting what he was about to say, until he had it perfectly memorised. “That you and I should help each other. You are the brightest witch of our age, and I want my AMGS' to be as impressive as possible, upon graduation. My offer in exchange, would be teaching you everything about pure-blood society and etiquette; everything I know, and that knowledge is considerable. As the Black heir, this knowledge will be invaluable to you, and for all my Aunt's many talents, I doubt she has the patience to impart this sort of thing on you.”   
  
Hermione could hardly conceal her shock, it was written all over her face. After a moment, she gathered her wits and began to ask questions.   
  
“You're already in the top five in our year group, Draco, I hardly think you require tutoring,” she began, although it was far from an outright refusal. She merely look puzzled.

“I believe one can never be overeducated, Hermione.” Saying her name felt strange in his mouth, but sweet. “And as I said, you _are_ brilliant.”   
  
Her cheeks darkened a little, and he struggled not to flash a delighted smile at this. She continued.   
  
“And how exactly do you propose to teach me pure-blood etiquette? What sort of things do I have to learn?” Her tone was interested, as he had predicted. His future bride was not one to accept being ignorant on just about any subject. Except perhaps Quidditch.

“We'd start out simple,” he answered easily. “Correct addresses, gifting, formal protocol,” he took a breath before he continued. “Then we'd move onto more complex matters; dinners and brunches, dancing, courting.” The fact he managed to say the last without blushing, turning pale and going green all at once, was a testament to his acting skills. This witch had always been able to turn him to some sort of unpolished half-blood jelly.   
  
“Courting?” she asked, before swallowing and nodding. “I suppose I will be expected to… court, at some point. I think you're right, Draco, this could be very useful. When do you suppose we should start?”   
  
“I think we should meet for dinner to discuss it in depth, perhaps in a couple of days, when all the excitement of today has passed,” he suggested. Everything was going according to plan.   
  
Hermione nodded thoughtfully, and then after a long moment; “Alright. Agreed.”   
  
Not giving himself any time to ruin the trick he had just pulled off, Draco nodded politely to the witch, stood, and moved quickly away to the Gryffindor table. He had successfully tricked his future wife into a series of dates. Onto the next matter of this odd day.

* * *

Harry sat at the Gryffindor table glumly pushing scrambled eggs around his plate. He had no appetite today, less so even than in the days previous. His stomach felt tight and his mouth felt dry. Today was the qualifying round for the International Duelling Competition, and in just a few short hours, he'd be going against hundreds of other competent witches and wizards in the hopes of getting through to the next round. His whole body felt sensitive as his nerves played havoc on his system. With a sigh, he pushed the plate away.

Dean, who had been watching Harry carefully, put a hand on his shoulder and grasped it firmly.

“It's going to be fine, mate,” he said with confident enthusiasm. “You're brilliant.”   
  
“And even if you don't-” came the encouraging tones of Ron. “You're only sixteen! It's not like anyone will think less of you for it.”

Whilst he knew the two of them were trying to be helpful, it took all his control not to snap at them. They didn't know the full story, of course. They didn't have the Dark Lord's expectations weighing heavily on their shoulders. They didn't know that all he could think about when he should have been practising his duelling, were the red eyes of the Dark Lord, and often the red hair of Michael, who he'd been unable to explain his disappearance to. The mere thought of his muggle lover made his chest tighten with sorrow. It wasn't that he had loved him, although maybe he would have come to; it was that he'd come to care for him. He knew how often the young man had been abandoned and neglected in his life; he wasn't an orphan, but he may as well have been. The thought of him thinking Harry had left him in the same way filled him with grief. He didn't want his lover – a man he had never quite thought of as his boyfriend – to suffer. The two wizards also didn't know what it was like to go through all this without the support of two of his best friends. It had been over a fortnight, and Draco and Blaise were yet to speak to him. Hermione had come to him after a few days, scolded him some more and cried a bit – something that almost wrenched the heart right out of him – but had forgiven him. Draco and Blaise were still giving him the cold shoulder, no matter how many times he tried to apologise.

Harry had begun to stand up, intending to find somewhere quiet to prepare himself for the challenges today would bring, when he was stopped short by the level gaze of Draco Malfoy. The young wizard stood at his side, by the Gryffindor table, with an expression that hadn't quite decided if it wanted to be a glare yet. Harry blinked rapidly, surprised.   
  
“Um. Hello, Draco,” he said, simply. He kept his face studiously blank and open. 

“I would like to begin by reiterating that you behaved like an idiot-” began Draco, his tone firm.  
  
“Yes,” Harry agreed, quickly.   
  
“-And that you are entirely too reckless; foolhardy, and often ridiculous.”

“I agree.”   
  
“-And that in future you will not endeavour to lie to your closest friends. We've stuck by you long enough to deserve the truth, Harry.”   
  
Harry merely nodded eagerly at this, trying to adopt an appropriately chastised expression. He couldn't help the faint bubbling of hope in his chest, however. He didn't even care that this interaction was going on in full view of other students, who were peering over in undisguised interest.

Blaise, who had entered the Great Hall just minutes before had paused in his journey to the table to watch this interaction, only a foot from it. His face was carefully expressionless, but intense.   
  
“Furthermore, whilst I acknowledge that you are talented; a magical genius, in fact,” he glowered as Harry's expression brightened a little, and Harry quickly concealed the spark of pride. “I would like you to promise that you will never again indulge in practices that could very well end your life.”

Harry opened his mouth, then shut it again. He threw a worried look at Blaise, who's eyes hardened considerably. “I...”

“He can't do it,” interrupted Blaise, his eyes as dark as his skin in his anger. “This will always be who he is.”   
  
Harry shook his head, mournfully. “Not really. I just- I can't say for certain. I don't know what the years could bring,” he sighed. “There are situations; things that could happen – things I'd risk my life for. I don't want to lie to you,” he levelled a profoundly serious look at Blaise. “Either of you.”   
  
“And you'd risk it for power?!” exploded Blaise, uncaring that his voice carried through the hall. That the Professors had begun to watch. That the dark eyes of Severus Snape and Regulus Black were watching the interaction carefully.   
  
“No,” he said firmly, his voice hard. “No, but I'd risk it for you. For him,” he gestured to Draco. “For my friends.”   
  
There was a quiet then, it may have lasted only seconds but it felt like an eternity before Blaise spoke again, his eyes shiny. The only thing preventing tears being his considerable pride.   
  
“Do you have any idea,” he began, his voice softer. Almost fragile. “What it was like to wonder if you were ever going to wake up?”  


Harry's eyes closed briefly, and he swallowed heavily. “I am sorry. Please. Forgive me?”   
  
Another tense moment. Draco looked to Blaise, Blaise to Harry, and then the tension dissipated as Blaise gave the smallest of nods. Draco spoke first, his expression warmer, visibly relieved.   
  
“You're not going to represent my family in that,” he gestured to Harry's robes. “Come on, we need to get you ready.”   
  
As the boys turned to leave the Great Hall, already in animated discussion about the competition and technique, and everything they had missed out on in the last couple of weeks, a Slytherin witch delicately wiped her eyes with the corner of her sleeve.  
  
“Boys,” said Hermione Black in exasperation, the smile not leaving her face for quite some time.

* * *

It was a crowd of several thousand. Impressive, when you considered the British Wizarding population numbered less than one-hundred thousand; witches and wizards controlled their population far more than their muggle counterparts, and they had lost over a fifth of their ranks to the Wizarding war. All in all, one in twenty of all the witches and wizards in Britain had turned up to the British qualifiers for the International Duelling Competition. It was always one of the biggest social events of the year, and anyone who was anyone or ever aspired to be, was present. 

This crowd was far from a sombre one.. It seemed to Harry, as he stood on the Quidditch pitch that had been re-designated for the day into a duelling ground (no other sort of stadium would take the sheer capacity of people), that every member of the crowd must be shouting in order to create the almighty roar that filled the space. He yearned to cast a silencing spell, but their wands had been confiscated upon entering the duelling area; they'd be tested and re-tested for illegal spells, and it prevented contestants getting into dirty tricks before their duels had begun.

There were perhaps three or four hundred witches and wizards on the ground; most wore a wristband of swirling blue light, marking them as a contestant. A few others were donning red that marked them as the event's staff. Such staff were buzzing around answering and asking questions; they looked frustrated and tired; Harry kept his many questions to himself. Instead, he eyed the crowd, trying to estimate his competition.

Everyone present was older than him, most by many years. There were few that were very old, but those that were looked less than frail; powerful witches and wizards lived longer after all, and one should never assume that a magical person advanced in years was weaker for said years. The average age looked to be late twenties to early forties, and that group were particularly disdainful when they caught sight of Harry. He'd been briefly featured in the Prophet a few days prior; the youngest entrant in many years. A few might respect him for having the sheer testicular fortitude to be here, but he could see from the derision on the majority of faces that they thought him merely a boastful child; too foolish to know he was outranked. Perhaps they were right.   
  
The most frightening sight in the crowd were the ones who wore the black robes and skull symbol that marked the Death Eaters. There weren't many, but he caught sight of a few in the crowd. They were unfailingly calm, collected and radiating power. Not all Death Eaters were powerful, but the ones who would come and willingly represent their Lord in this way would do so because they knew they would not embarrass him. After all, who would dare fail the Dark Lord?   
With an expression mixed somewhere between hope and fear, Harry glanced up at the top box, located central in the stadium, in which the best seats were. If the Dark Lord were here at the event, then he'd be up there. It was too far away from him to make out the figures in the box, but he knew that Draco would be there with his Father; Hermione with her adoptive Mother, Bellatrix. Blaise was also there at Draco's behest. He wished he could see them; feel their encouragement. Of course, he knew they were rooting for him, which was all that really mattered.   
  
“You're the kid,” came a female voice from behind. Harry whirled round and was greeted to the sight of a pretty young woman. She couldn't be far into her twenties, which made her one of the younger contestants. What marked her out besides that, was the fact she had bright blue hair,and a face that seemed somehow familiar. She smiled at him. “I read about you in the prophet,” she added.   
  
He nodded and smiled in return, if hesitantly. “I prefer Harry, to be honest.”  
  
She smiled again, this time an embarrassed one. “Sorry, I have a tendency to be a bit blunt, Harry. My name is Nymphadora, but my friends call me Dora.” 

He offered a hand, and she shook it. “So what do you think to all this then? It's my first time. I didn't expect it to be so...” she trailed off. “Well, you know.”   
  
Harry nodded, and lacking anything further to say, added “It's my first time too.”   
  
Dora grinned. “Well unless last time you came holding your Mother's skirts, I would hope so,” she laughed. Harry scowled playfully.   
  
“Who are you here with?” he asked after a moment, noticing her scanning the crowds above.   
  
“Oh, just my Mum. I bet she's hating the noise though,” she answered worriedly, then added as if he'd asked, “she doesn't get out a lot.”   
  
He nodded again, unsure of what else to say. Before they could say anything further however, a high pitched tone filled the pitch. Then another, signalling there was about to be an announcement.   
  
“ **Contestants** ,” began an officious voice, magically amplified to fill the stadium. “ **Move to your assigned colours, and take out your calling cards. When your number is called, you will have two minutes to get to your assigned duelling station before your match begins. DO NOT be late.** ”   
  
Harry pulled out his card; a small piece of paper that indicated his name, contestant number and colour. Nymphadora did the same.   
  
“I've got yellow,” she offered.   
  
“Blue,” he replied.   
  
She nodded and smiled brightly again, “Well then, Harry the kid, good luck!”   
  
With that, she joined the slow moving flow of human traffic towards her assigned colour. After one deep breath to collect himself, Harry did the same.

* * *

 

There were ten colours in total. As Harry moved to his assigned colour, which had magically appeared on his calling card since the last time he'd checked it, the glowing band of light around his wrist shifted to a darker blue. He looked around as the coloured wrist-bands across the stadium changed, so the bands of light matched their stations. Ten circles of light around the stadium marked the designated waiting areas. Around the larger circles were many smaller circles; the areas in which the duels themselves would take place. The competition was organised as follows: contestants would duel only others in their colour. When the competition began, they would do ten duels, being randomly assigned opponents from within their colour. For every match won, the contestant would score a point. For every match lost, the contestant would lose a point. At the end of ten matches, the contestants with the highest five scores in each category would be taken forward to the British championships. An event even more eagerly anticipated than this one.   
  
Harry moved to his assigned area and waited. To his surprise, he was filled with a bubbling excitement at the prospect of the duels. The nervous energy seemed to be emboldening him, and he looked up at the large screens at all four corners of the pitch. Displayed on each were ten columns, highlighted by their colour. In roughly thirty-five to forty rows were the names of the contestants, each currently with a zero next to their name. At the top of the board were the words 'Round 0' in large lettering. Around the stadium, viewers would be watching their programs, where the scores were magically transferred in real time. Richer viewers would have their own screens, able to zoom in on the action in a specific colour category. The amount of gold and thought that had gone into merely the qualifiers for the IDC was a wonder to behold.

Their wands were being redistributed by a harried looking woman in red, and Harry was relieved to see that it was indeed his wand that had been safely delivered back to him. He watched with quiet interest as she had a whispered word with one of the other contestants; he began to argue, but she obviously said something that quieted him quickly, and the man walked off dejectedly. He noted that less than a minute later, a name on the board was greyed out and an X appeared where the score had been. There was a handful like this across the board by the time all the wands had been safely returned. It would appear that some people had been disqualified. He had little time to think on this before the officious voice once again boomed out.   
  
“ **Contestants, make your way to your designated duelling area. Round one will begin in two minutes. I repeat, round one will begin in two minutes. See your calling card for details, and have your wands at the ready**.”   
  
After checking and finding he was in 'Blue 4', he looked around and quickly found his pod. A moment after he entered, a fair haired witch in her late thirties joined him. She smiled smugly when she saw him, obviously believing he'd be an easy first round. They stood the required distance from each other, and the volume of the crowd decreased slightly as safety wards formed around them.  
  
“Don't worry, dear,” said the woman, cheerfully. “I won't be too hard on you!” It set his teeth on edge, but he smiled politely back at her.   
  
They waited, and waited, and then the countdown begun. “ **10, 9, 8, 7...3, 2, 1. Begin!** ”   
  
There had been a few small outcries before the countdown had reached one, and Harry was sure if he looked up, he'd see a few more greyed out names. He didn't look up, however, as his focus was all on the duel. The woman smiled almost tenderly at him as she lifted her wand.   
  
It came as quite a surprise to the witch when she was _ennervated_ several minutes later. She had little memory of being stunned, but then, she hadn't expected the young boy to be so fast. Harry had merely _stupified_ her, nothing impressive; the woman, lulled by his youthful exterior had not even thought to use a shield charm. More fool her.   
  
Harry grinned as he saw the number one appear next to his name, indicating he had scored a point. The round ended several minutes later, and they were instructed to return to the central ring. The way to win a match was simple; you merely had to disarm, knock out, or otherwise incapacitate your opponent. You weren't allowed to kill, but there were few other restrictions. If within the five minute time frame neither managed to best the other, then it was declared a draw and no points were given.

The second match was called and Harry moved to Blue 9. This time he was against a man looking to be in his early fifties. He scowled at Harry, and Harry scowled right back. He doubted playing the child would work in this match. Indeed, it didn't.   
The moment the match began, the man cast a series of spells in quick succession, and non verbally. Harry only just managed to raise a shield charm, and even then it was sloppy. It almost collapsed under the barrage of stunners before Harry could even reinforce it. Thinking on his feet, Harry dropped the shield and dropped to the floor simultaneously. The wizard had to cease his constant fire of _stupifies_ to put up his own shield when Harry fired a particularly nasty stinging hex his way. The man managed it, avoiding the hex, but the man's defence was little more impressive than his had been. With a particularly powerful _expelliarmus,_ Harry shattered the shield and subsequently got the man's wand. If it were possible for someone to be killed by a glare, Harry would be very dead. Fortunately, it was not, and the end of the round was called quickly. Harry's grin only got wider and wilder as his name got a two next to it and shot up the blue leaderboard.

Two more duels passed in a similar way. He bested a wizard who may have only entered as a joke, given Harry had him bound and disarmed in less than ten seconds; Harry suspected he might even be drunk. He then had a good four minute bout with a talented witch in her twenties, who was disarmed only by a particularly clever and dirty trick Harry did in which he feigned fatigue to make her think she was close to winning, before surprising her with a tickling jinx. He all but swaggered into the fifth match; believing that perhaps this competition was going to be easier than he thought. Until he saw the robes of his next opponent. Black robes marked by a skull; a very attractive witch in her late twenties grinned at him as he entered the ring. He blanched. A Death Eater.

* * *

The VIP box was abuzz with activity. It's capacity was quite large, having enough room to sit around fifty people. It didn't usually get within a fifth of that, however, the rich preferring to enjoy the free-flowing champagne, personal screens, and excellent house-elf service by themselves. Even in the years before, the box had never been this packed with people. In large part, it was because of an unusually high amount of Death Eater entrants this year. There were always a few, but on the ground today there were at least ten medium-to-high ranking death eaters. Many fellow Death Eaters had then come to watch their comrades (whether to see their successes or failures was left unsaid). Certainly Bellatrix, Lucius, Professor Crouch and Professor Snape were flicking their personal screens from Death Eater match to Death Eater match. Occasionally Lucius and Crouch would glance over at the screen that Hermione, Draco and Blaise were gathered around; eagerly watching Harry compete. 

“That last one was close,” said Hermione, letting out a breath she had obviously been holding as Harry won the fourth match.   
  
“He's doing well,” said Blaise with a nod. “Isn't getting too showy.”   
  
“I wish he'd be a bit more showy,” grumbled Draco. Only two of the three matches had been remotely interesting so far. Harry was so obviously better than his opponents, and found himself joint first thus far with six other competitors. “At least he looks good in our house colours.”

Draco had insisted that Harry wear his best duelling-robes, adorned now with the Malfoy crest and their colours of silver and green.   
  
There was a collective gasp from the three as Harry moved to the duelling area for his fifth match. Lucius, who had glanced over to the screen at the sound, quickly waved his wand and changed his own screen to Blue 6. Raising an eyebrow, the rest of the Death Eaters present did the same.  
  
“Come now,” began Severus in irritation, his screen yet to be changed. “That match will surely be over in moments. Potter can't win against Selwyn.”   
  
Lucius smirked. “I think you underestimate the child, Severus. Harry is quite the accomplished duellist.”   
  
Severus snorted indelicately and waved his wand over his own screen. “I do not underestimate Verona Selwyn.”  
  
The Dark Lord, who had been deep in conversation with some sort of foreign ambassador at the back of the box, waved the woman into silence. Quietly, he returned to the front of the box; his position being the very front row where he alone sat. It was left unseated regardless of whether he was at an event or not. He took a seat on his row, and wandlessly changed his personal screen to Blue 6. It would be interesting to see how the boy fared against one of his best duellists.

* * *

The first thing Harry did was throw up the strongest possible shield charm that he could. The second thing he did was try to think of a plan. He was suddenly very aware of how stunted his technique was by being unable to kill, or try to kill. The best of his repertoire was deadly; from fiend-fyre to wasting curses. He'd even invented a spell that effected the bodies ability to coagulate blood without the victims awareness; a simple diffindo would then be enough to kill. It wasn't like he'd ever used these techniques in battle, but his self-confidence in duels was largely based on them. He knew very little about how to take a strong opponent down without killing them. 

A spell hit his shield, and was absorbed. Then another, and another. The witch before him; all blonde hair and hazel eyes, grinned, delighted. It wasn't a mocking grin, or the kind of grin one gives because they think they are about to win. Rather, it was the sort of grin one gives when they're rather impressed. Still smiling, she began to walk towards him. He was confused for a moment as she did so, and shot a stunner her way to test her reaction. She threw up a shield easily and fluidly and did not even pause in her stride towards him. He realised then that she intended to walk through his shield. They were not wards, after all, and only protected from spells.  
  
With only a moment to consider, he dropped the shield and ran past her, ducking as she fired a nasty looking hex his way, avoiding it only by a hair's breadth. He turned, and allowed himself to fall back simultaneously, as another spell soared towards his head. Non-verbally, he fired an _imperius_ curse her way. She dodged this, rather than throw up a shield, but her face showed the same smile it had earlier. _Imperio_ was a very difficult spell to do non-verbally. The woman glanced up at the clock on the great screen and her smile became an irritated look. She sighed, and spoke an incantation Harry didn't recognise; the shield around him dissolved, and the expalliarmus hit him before he even had time to fully grasp the situation. Even afterwards he had little idea as to how she'd brought down his guard. His wand hit her hand just two seconds before the clock reached the five minute mark. She had been playing with him.   
  
Harry watched with a sinking feeling of dread as his name moved down the leader-board. With a score of three, he was far from near the bottom; he remained near the top in fact, but not the top five. Barely the top ten. Nevertheless, he nodded to the Death Eater with respect, and to his surprise, she did the same.

For the next four matches, Harry played with a ruthless determination. He had lost to that witch - a worthy opponent - but he'd be damned if he let anyone else best him. One came close, uncomfortably close in fact, managing to catch him with a body-bind. It was only that the wizard was unaware that Harry could perform some basic wandless magic – enough to manage a _finite incantatum_ – that he had managed to catch him by surprise and disarm him. As he went into the central circle and waited for the tenth round, he looked up at the board and growled. He was currently joint sixth. Someone in the top five had to lose the next match. This was far closer than he had hoped, and three competitors had a perfect score of nine thus far.   
  
His last match was somewhat anti-climactic. The witch was a fair dueller, but clearly tired. She had the look of someone who was just wishing for her bed, and Harry made the assumption – that later turned out to be correct – that she was too far down the ranking now to be able to catch up. She put up a good duel, that ran past the three minute mark, before he managed to aim a stinging jinx at her hand, causing her to drop her wand. She gave him a resigned smile at this, and seemed relieved to return to the centre for the last time.  
Harry didn't share her weariness. As soon as his match had ended, he looked up to the board eagerly, only to see that all the scores had disappeared. In their place the screen merely said 'Championship competitors', and below the board remain blank in ten colours – with five rows now remaining. He waited, and the two minutes seemed to stretch on endlessly. When the round finally came to a close, and the weary competitors returned to the circle, the officious voice once again began to speak.   
  
“ **Honourable Witches and Wizards – the results of the British Qualifiers are about to be announced. The results will be announced momentarily.** ” There was a short pause, and Harry remembered to breath.   
  
“From Green...” he announced the winners from green, but Harry paid little attention as he did not recognise any names. Occasionally he'd recognise a surname from someone he vaguely knew from Hogwarts; their cousins or siblings perhaps, even parents – but no one he knew particularly well. He paid little attention as other colours were announced; red and orange being announced next. He noticed little pockets of sound at certain names from the crowd, and thought perhaps they were their families. He recognised the odd familiar name from competitions past, too. Anthon Veil for example, had done very well in the British Championships last year, and his name was announced to fond cheers from the crowd. Harry smiled as much as his nerves could allow when he heard the name Nymphadora McKinnon announced in yellow.  
  
Finally, it was time to announce for blue. The winners were announced in order of rank, and Harry held his breath.   
“ **The order for blue, and those passing to the British Championships are as follows; Verona Selwyn, Rhianne Willow, Nathanial Flint** ,” Harry bit his lip and closed his eyes. “ **Bartholomew Prince,** ” the announcer probably didn't pause anymore for this name than he did for any of the others, but to Harry it felt like that second dragged more than any other wait had from the moment he decided to enter the IDC. “ **Harry Potter**.”

Across the stadium, in the centre of an empty row of seats, a Dark Lord smirked.   
  
Across the stadium, at the very top, packed between countless spectators in the very worst seats, a werewolf cursed.

 

 


	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter 15**

It took a grand total of fourty-eight hours before Harry felt anything but relief, pride and vindication at his performance in the qualifiers. The two days were a whirlwind of parties, press conferences and alcohol; he scarcely had a moment to consider his current situation, before he was dragged to another common room party, or Hogsmeade pub. His face was beginning to hurt from the amount of grinning he'd been doing. On the morning of the third day, however, he had woken to the grim faces of Blaise and Draco, shoving a copy of the Daily Prophet before him.

**Youngest Qualifier in British History: My Exclusive Interview with Harry Potter**   
**by Rita Skeeter**

_In the excitement of the International Duelling Competition, it's been hard to miss headlines about little Harry Potter. The boy, aged just sixteen, is not only the youngest of only fifty witches and wizards to pass into this years British Championships – but the youngest ever to compete at National Championship level. For you, my dear readers, I've got the scoop on what makes the newest teen heart-throb tick._

_We begin our interview at the championship press conference. With ten renowned Death Eaters in attendance, and previous international competitors, it's understandable that a young boy like Harry Potter might be nervous. In an intimate conversation, Harry reveals that he's using fire whisky to drown out his nerves at the event. This sets the tone for the rest of our interview; Harry Potter, all smiles for the camera, is a troubled soul. When asked if he's used addictive substances to deal with stress before, Harry reveals that he has been doing so from as young as fourteen. Marked as a prodigy from his first year, it's no wonder Harry has trouble living up to the expectations of his peers._

_"Coming from Malfoy Orphanage, I was just a face in a crowd. It's nice to have some recognition." But how far is Harry willing to go for the love he was denied as a child? In our conversation, Harry revealed that he was willing to go to any length to win the competition, and the affection of his new fans. "I want to make my mark, you know?"_   
_Harry Potter, my research has revealed, is the child of war criminal James Potter and muggle-born wife Lilly Potter. The two were members of the infamous Order of the Phoenix, led by the late megalomaniac, Albus Dumbeldore. One has to wonder if some_

_of little Harry's ambition comes from a desire to redeem his parents. "I hope to be a Death Eater someday," he proclaimed at the press conference, when asked about his plans after Hogwarts. In our conversation, one can see the ghosts of their guilt in the little boys eyes._

_Harry came fifth in his category at the qualifiers, narrowly avoiding defeat in several of his matches. For a child his age, it was of course impressive, but one has to wonder how he'll cope in the big leagues. "I'm hopeful," said Mr Potter, grinning. "I still have a few tricks in the bag."_   
_Mr Potter might need more than a few tricks with the competition he's likely to come against come February. For this troubled teenage idol, let's hope his luck holds out in the championship._

Harry stared through the page blankly for several long seconds, before the first flames of a furious anger began to bubble into his stomach. He opened his mouth, unsure what he was going to say, but knowing it was unlikely to be at any polite volume. Draco interrupted.

"Father has requested you join him at the manor, immediately," he said, simply.

Harry opened his mouth again, shut it, opened it again, and then sighed. "How angry is he?"

"Livid, but mostly not with you. Skeeter has a famously convuluted relationship with facts"

Harry nodded, dragging himself out of bed with a groan as the memories of the night before made itself known. Blaise silently handed him a particularly potent hangover potion, which he took in wordless thanks.

"Oh, and apparently, you went skinny dipping last night-" added Draco, some mix of irritation and amusement evident on his face.

"-with a bunch of Ravenclaw girls," added Blaise with a smirk.

"Christ, did-?" Harry began.

"The entire faculty saw. Reports say it was hard to miss, given halfway across the lake you took out your wand and cast mosmordre into the sky," added Draco dryly.

"I don't even want to know where you were storing your wand," muttered Blaise.

Harry's cheeks burned a deep red and his eyes widened at the prospect of the staff, including three Death Eaters, having seen him… disrobed. Disrobed below a symbol of the Dark Lord, which he didn't even have the legal right to cast.

"And how deep a shit am I in?" Harry asked with a sigh, pulling on his trousers and shoes quickly.

"Well I think Bellatrix and Crouch might have been persuaded to let it go-"

"- Although Severus was spitting feathers -"

"- Until you decided to try and ride the giant squid-"

"- in your inebriated state -"

"And Bellatrix had to go in after you herself."

"Anyways, you're to report to her office after Father."

"Fuck."

* * *

 

As it turned out, Harry did not have to wait until after his visit with Lucius to see his dear Headmistress. After flooing directly into the dining room of Malfoy Manor, as per Draco's instructions, he found himself in some very interesting company. Sat around the table was Bellatrix - flanked by a surprisingly cheery looking Hermione - Severus, Narcissa, and one other woman. The last woman came as the greatest surprise to Harry, when he immediately recognised her as none other than the Death Eater he had duelled and lost to just three days ago – Verona Selwyn. When Harry appeared, she offered a smile so sincere and welcoming that Harry was almost taken aback. Thankfully, he was distracted by the almost instantaneous shrieking of Bellatrix.

"Why, you little brat!" she caught him with a lashius before he was even aware she was gunning for him, and he yelped, involuntarily putting a hand to his thighs.

"Bella!" he hissed, rubbing the spot.

"Don't you 'Bella' me, Potter!" she cast again. "There was no part of me that wanted to spend my evening fishing drunkard half-bloods out of a fucking lake while a squid decided I looked like a nice date for the evening!" she cast the spell again.

"Ow!" he responded. She could really pack a sting with that spell.

"Ow!" she mimicked, rolling her eyes. She cast the spell one more time, before sighing dramatically, muttering something about tentacles and never being able to eat calamari again, and sat down with a huff. It was all Hermione could do not to giggle, and her adoptive Mother threw her a venomous expression, before her mouth quirked into the smallest of smiles too.

The interaction said much about the relationship between Harry and Bellatrix. Bellatrix had jumped into a lake to rescue Harry from his own drunken misbehaviour, and though had clearly quite enjoyed causing him pain for that fact, had not used a spell one could not quite reasonably use to reprimand a naughty first year. Harry, though quite able to defend himself from such an attack, had not raised his wand once even to raise a shield. There was an affection there, no matter how loudly Harry complained about not being able to sit in polite company for a week.

Selwyn had clearly noticed this, as her eyes sparkled with mirth as she looked between the two. The woman seemed all too amused by Harry's antics. The same could not be said of Severus Snape.

"Detention Potter, every Friday for the rest of the term." Harry groaned, but a sharp look from Severus silenced him.

Suddenly, the room was quiet. Harry took a seat at the long oak table as an elf pulled it out for him, and he adopted a more sombre expression as Lucius began to speak.

"I am disturbed by the headlines today, Mr Potter," Lucius began silkily.

"It's all lies," said Harry, earnestly. "I've never even spoken to that witch!"

"Oh?" Lucius continued, eyes dangerous. "And you have a very clear memory of the last few days, do you?"

Harry dropped his gaze, and flushed slightly. "I know I've had a little fun, but-"

"A little?" asked Selwyn, eyes full of laughter.

"But honestly, I'd never say the things she's written. I do not have a drinking problem! And all this about giving a flying fuck about my birth parents-"

Lucius waved him into silence. "Language. I'm quite aware of Rita Skeeter's journalistic ethics, Mr Potter. The issue is that you are not handling the press in the way one must when in the spotlight. You're sixteen years old, you cannot be drinking or..." he paused, sneering. "...being intimate, in public."

"Being intimate?" he questioned, his face paling.

"Our contact at the Prophet only just stopped this being printed alongside the front page," said Narcissa, quietly, floating a photograph before Harry.

It was him, entwined with some man. He recalled it. He recalled the first person he had kissed since he had been forced to abandon Michael; recalled through a drunken haze the emptiness of it, the desperation. Recalled the man gushing about his duel as Harry crashed his lips against his, dominating him. The picture showed Harry having pinned the man's hands above his head, his knee between his legs, in a back alley of Hogsmeade. The man had been boring, really. Some graduated Hufflepuff who worked in accountancy at the Ministry. He didn't remember his name.

Verona eyed the picture, and if anything, looked more delighted. Bellatrix barked a short laugh - "Well that explains a lot," she added – and Severus' eyebrows had raised almost into his greasy hairline. Harry was somehow pale and blushing at the same time.

"I-" he stammered out, his neck hot. "I didn't… I'm not-" he began.

Narcissa interrupted impatiently. "Honestly, Harry. The problem here is not that you are inclined towards Wizards."

"That particular prejudice is just a mudblood pollution. Witches and Wizards have never cared about sexual orientation," added Lucius, firmly.

"The problem," continued Narcissa, her tone as prim and measured as always. "is that you're not betrothed, or even of age. What you do in private is your business as long as you're discrete, but alleys are entirely inappropriate."

"Not only are you very close to my son, and niece," he nodded to Hermione. "You're also representing the Malfoy name. We would not tolerate this sort of wild behaviour from our son, and we will not tolerate it from you," he said sternly.

"You have always protected my son, Harry," added Narcissa. "Please think of our family name in the same way."

Harry maintained eye contact with Narcissa for a long moment before nodding seriously. "I am sorry, Lord and Lady Malfoy. I may have gotten carried away with the celebrations and forgot my responsibilities. It will not happen again."

Narcissa looked at him searchingly for another moment, before nodding and smiling warmly. "Then we shall consider this matter forgotten."

"And I'll have a quiet word with Ms. Skeeter," added Selwyn, still smiling.

* * *

 

Hermione Granger sighed dramatically, glaring at herself in the mirror for what felt like the hundredth time that day. She was wearing a dramatic green dress, with puffed sleeves and lace brocade. She had no doubt that once, this dress had been fashionable. She just didn't know when, or how, or if it had been fashionable in some previously unknown coven of blind witches – unable to see that they looked like giant, silk-ridden bogies. With a wave of her wand, the thing joined the growing pile of dresses and robes that littered her unreasonably large bed and she was left standing in her underwear with a deep frown on her face. In a fit of temper, she waved her wand once more and the whole pile set alight. The dresses didn't burn of course; the flames were harmless illusions, but it did something to soothe her growing temper. With a flop, she laid sprawled in the fake flames atop the mess of discarded robes and considered the ceiling of her bedroom at Lestrange Manor. Honestly, being a teenage girl was far more work than it had any right to be.

"Well," came an amused, and altogether unexpected voice from the doorway. "This isn't quite what I expected."

Hermione jumped up, quickly casting her wand over the bed to cease the flames. Blushing, she gave her adoptive Mother an embarrassed smile. After conjuring some pyjamas onto herself, she sat back down once more trying to look less put out than she felt.

"I couldn't find what I was looking for at Hogwarts, so I thought I'd pop over. I hope you don't mind, I thought you'd be at the castle."

Bellatrix came into the room, throwing herself down atop the pile of clothes and grinning.

"Mind? Little girl, this is your home. Why would I mind? I was at Hogwarts, but when the wards alerted me to you coming here, I thought I'd see if you were alright."

It was at times like this that Hermione wondered at the startling depth of Bellatrix. Fierce war veteran, and widely thought of as a talented lunatic, she was unexpectedly warm towards her. Hermione knew that Bellatrix saw family as vitally important; when Hermione had become part of said family, she had gained access to a side of her that few others ever saw. Even so, she bristled at the 'little girl' endearment. The last thing she wanted was to look like a little girl today.

"I'm fine," she muttered, with a sigh. "It's just – oh nevermind, it's silly."

Hermione grew more embarrassed. It was one thing to be this distressed about your appearance and quite another to disclose that fact to your war hero, death eater Mother.

"'Mione, I spend most of my time planning military tactics and rangling wayward students. I could do with some silly now and then," said Bellatrix, encouragingly.

"It's just," Hermione began, flushing. "Draco Malfoy made me an offer; he'd teach me all about Pure Blood customs and etiquette, and I'd help him with classes. It seemed like a good idea at first, but he's invited me to a restaurant tonight to go over the details and well I – I don't know what to wear."

Bellatrix, as warm as she was to Hermione, could do very little in terms of concealing her emotions. She made no attempt to as she threw her head back against the bed and laughed. Hermione's mouth set into a hard line, and before she knew what she was doing, she had smacked her with a pillow.

Bellatrix still took a few long moments to stop laughing.

"It's not funny! I have no idea about any of this – this stuff!"

"Oh Hermione," said Bellatrix, her eyes still watery with laughter. "Can't you see this is a teency bit funny? Here you are, the most brilliant witch of your age, capable of feats of magic and intellect many Death Eaters are not – and here you are – worrying about whether your bum looks big in your dress robes!" Bellatrix laughed once again, whilst Hermione scowled. "By Salazar, my girl, you couldn't give me all the gold in Gringotts to be your age again. It's too much work."

"You know, if you're just going to laugh at me -" began Hermione, heatedly.

"Oh don't get your knickers in a twist!" said Bellatrix, sobering slightly. "Of course I'll help you. Although I'd be lying if I said I'd ever been much better at this stuff than you are. That was always Narcissa's thing. We could floo over there?"

"To Draco's Mother?!" she demanded, face frozen in horror.

Bellatrix smirked a bit. "Well perhaps not then. You know, little girl, I'm beginning to think this is a bit more than a meeting. Do you like him?" The look she gave Hermione was almost hopeful, and she paled.

"Like him? Like, you mean like him like that? I – Of course not! I mean I barely even know him that well. I doubt he really knows I exist beyond my grades. Besides, he's a Malfoy and I'm-"

"A Black," said Bellatrix, firmly. A hard edge to her expression. "Don't forget that my girl. You are a Black now and my Daughter, more worthy than anyone, whether I whelped you myself or not."

Hermione looked as though she might argue, but one look at Bellatrix's face persuaded her otherwise.

"It still doesn't mean he'd ever see me like that. Draco is – Draco's sophisticated, and I'm – bookish, a swot really. I bet he hasn't even noticed I'm a living, breathing girl."

Bellatrix chuckled darkly. "I wouldn't bet on that."

Hermione began to question the statement, a perplexed look on her face, but Bellatrix just waved her hand dismissively.

"Right," her Mother continued. "I propose we go do a little shopping."

"You?" Hermione asked, her expression somewhere between amused and horrified. "You, Bellatrix Lestrange, shopping?"

Bellatrix rolled her eyes. "I have been known to shop now and then, you know. I don't just transfigure the curtains."

Hermione smirked, eyeing her Mother's ankle length black dress. "I assumed you just raided the odd mausoleum."

This time, Bellatrix smacked her with a pillow and Hermione laughed, wandlessly conjuring several more pillows that began to batter her Mother. Bellatrix, with a lazy flick of her wand, set them on fire. Unlike Hermione, they were very real flames.

"Come on, daughter mine. Let's get you properly outfitted for your date!"

"It's not a-"

But Bellatrix had already seized her wrist, and apparated them away.

* * *

 

In the early evening, Harry found himself quite alone on the grounds of Hogwarts. His friends were all otherwise preoccupied, and for once he was glad of the peace. Days of revelry, followed by the chastisement in the morning, had left him feeling wrung out. Before long, he found himself perched on a fallen tree trunk at the very edge of the forbidden forest, feeling broody and irritated. It was not a particularly safe place, but it was a solitary one. The air had turned to a crisp chill abruptly in recent weeks, and since the sun had set there wasn't another student to be seen on the grounds. He had even left Ember in the warm confines of his room.  
Rita Skeeter might be a contemptuous woman; by all accounts, a downright parasite, but she had a point. Harry had barely managed to scrape through the Qualifiers. If he hoped to compete and win at the Championships, then his current level was not enough.

He shifted his position, laying down across the trunk precariously and glaring up at a sky that was just beginning to fill with stars. Harry spent some time deep in thought, going over his performance again and again trying to pinpoint where his weaknesses were. As the night grew cooler, he ignored his bodies desire to use a heating charm and instead used the cold to help him concentrate. He grew more and more agitated. He missed Michael; he missed muggle cigarettes. He wanted to win the IDC and prove himself, but suddenly felt young and inadequate. What good was it being known as a genius at Hogwarts if he got wiped out at Championship level? Why hadn't he used wandless magic more? Why hadn't he reacted faster, used more of his repertoire. Why?

"It's good to know I'll have less competition to worry about when you freeze yourself to death," came a wry voice from close by. Harry almost jumped out of his skin, so deep and still had the silence been. He was on his feet with his wand in his hand in a second flat.

"And it'd be convenient given you've got better reflexes than most Death Eaters." From the nearby trees emerged a familiar woman, her face visible beneath a deep green cloak. It took Harry a moment to put a name to a face.

"Dora?" he asked, uncertainly.

"The one and only," she said with a wild grin, drawing down her hood. "I'm glad you remember me! I was worried you wouldn't, given all the fun you've been having."

Harry scowled, before growing suspicious. "What are you doing here?"

Dora smiled tightly, before taking a seat on the trunk Harry had previously been perched on. Her hair was a bright shade of purple, and as she sat it shifted to a deep blue. "I've come to talk to you, actually."

This only put Harry more on his guard. "It's hardly normal for visitors to come via the forbidden forest, you know," he pointed out.

She grinned crookedly. "Well that's good, as I'm hardly normal. Besides, couldn't have the ol' cranks up at the castle knowing I'm about. They could hardly tolerate it when I went here myself."

Her demeanour was easy at first, but then as she turned to look at him again, she became cold. Suddenly she wasn't quite meeting his eyes. Rather, she was staring intensely at what he first thought to be his chest, but realised moments later was his locket.

"Nice jewellery," she commented, her voice noticeably flat.

"Thanks..." he replied, uneasily, unconsciously touching the chain. "Look, Dora, why are you here? Is it about the competition?"

Dora seemed to come to her senses, shaking herself from whatever had caught her attention so fully. She smiled, though it seemed strained. "In a sort of a way," she said. "There are some people that want to meet you, Harry. Friends of mine. They could help you with the competition… And other issues you might be having."

"Your friends… want to meet me?" he gave her a look that he hope conveyed his utter confusion, and she threw a furtive look towards the castle.

"I'm not explaining this right," she said with a sigh. "Fortunately, that was anticipated. Here," she drew an envelope from her pocket and handed it to him. He took it, inspecting the front that simply said Harry in writing he did not recognise. This night was getting stranger and stranger, and he kept a tight hold of his wand in his pocket. Nymphadora cast a tempus, and just as he was about to tear open the missive, she put a hand out to stop him.

"Not yet, not while I'm here. Let's talk a little first," she gave him another tight smile, and he nodded uneasily. His unease must have been there for some time, as he noticed for the first time that his necklace had grown warmer than usual, as it sometimes did when he was in strange or uncomfortable situations.

"How do you like Hogwarts? Are they good to you?" she asked, quickly. It seemed as though the question had been thought of on the spot, and for the life of him he couldn't fathom why this woman he had met only once had broken into Hogwarts just to make pleasantries with him.

"Yeah," he said, quickly. "Listen, I've got to get back to the common room. I'll read your letter."

For a moment, Dora looked alarmed. "Wait, no. Just, talk to me for a little bit longer?"

He sighed, growing irritated. "Seriously, what is this about-"

**And then the ground was ripped from under him.**

He recognised the lurching pull of a port-key, and had just a moment to think of several choice expletives before he landed heavily on a wooden floor.

"Expelliarmus!" A female voice shouted, just as he was staggering to his feet and drawing his wand.

He looked around wildly, taking in the scene. His heart was catching up quickly with the gravity of the situation, and seemed to be trying to beat its way out of his chest. It wasn't common for IDC competitors to use underhanded tricks to eliminate competition, but it certainly wasn't unheard of.  
The room around him was simple, but elegant. It was small, perhaps fifteen feet by ten, and contained only two sofas. To one side was a window, showing a bright blue sky. This in itself was deeply concerning, given that it was well into the evening in the timezone he had just left.  
He had little time to take in the surroundings however, as the two figures before him had almost all of his attention.

One was a witch, who bore a striking resemblance to Bellatrix Lestrange. It was definitely not Bellatrix – Harry could tell not only by the fact that Bella would never wear white, but also some difference in bone structure and colouring. Still, the likeness was too uncanny to be coincidental. The woman also had the confident and superior stance of a witch raised in the House of Black. Beside her, was a rather shabbier and diminished looking man. He was wearing clean, but poor quality robes – his face was gaunt, almost starved in appearance, as though he had been living on the streets. Harry took all this in within seconds. There was no where to run, it appeared, but this didn't seem to matter. His kidnappers, though holding their wands out and on guard, were not looking at him with any degree of hostility. The woman's face was decidedly impassive, and the man's seemed almost awed.

As positively unnerving as the situation was, he was struggling to keep his attention fully on the two kidnappers, as the locket had gotten significantly hotter in the last few seconds alone and was beginning to burn – almost throbbing against his chest. If it was trying to warn him of danger, then it was a little damn late.

"Harry-" began the man, lowering his wand slightly. "I'm sorry we had to meet like this. It seems it was the only way to get you here without alerting anyone."

The man's voice was gentle, but Harry was positively furious. He had been abducted and disarmed, and the man dared to try to be soothing!

"Give me my wand," Harry said slowly, his voice a hard edge.

"I'm afraid I can't, Harry, not yet. Not until we've had a chance to talk. It's very important that we talk," continued the man, hurriedly, his hands gesturing as though to calm him.

"We can talk when you give me my damn wand!" Harry glared, and small tendrils of magic were licking over his skin. He felt damned helpless here.  
The woman shifted slightly, her impassive face flickering for a moment with something more, before she raised her wand back to it's original position.

"Harry, listen to me. You… You are being lied to."

"Lied to?" he demanded, his frustration evident. Why didn't any of these people speak plainly.

"About everything. About the war, about who you are, about your parents-"

"-my parents?!" Harry interrupted furiously. "What the fuck are you talking about?"

"I was their friend, Harry. I was their friend, and the things those… those monsters have told you about them. It's wrong, Harry. It's all wrong."  
There was a desperate sadness in the eyes of the man, but Harry only grew more heated. His parents had been war criminals, working for the Albus Dumbledore. None of that mattered nearly as much as that they had continued to fight, even knowing they had a one year old in tow. That they had been willing to give their lives for that mad man's project and leave him orphaned. Something occurred to him then, even as the locket was growing more and more difficult to ignore. Even as it began to actually burn his skin.

"You-" he asked, suddenly. "Who are you?"

"My name is Remus Lupin," replied the man, calmly. "I was friends with your parents, Harry."

"And this," Harry gestured, almost in shock. "You. You're a part of the resistance, aren't you?"

Slowly, Lupin nodded, and bile rose in his throat.

"Take me back to Hogwarts. Now." he demanded, his voice full of anger.

"I'm afraid we can't do that, Harry," Lupin explained, his face full of obvious nerves. "You see, you're going to have to stay here with us for a little while. Just while we explain some things to you."

They weren't going to let him leave. They were going to trap him here, without his wand. The locket throbbed harder, more urgently. Suddenly it was like an itch in his chest, a terrible, deep itch.

"Where are we?" he demanded.

Lupin looked at the woman for a moment, wordlessly communicating, before looking back at him. "We're on an island called Mindoro. We've been here for some time, and I'm afraid you'll have to remain here for a while. It's heavily warded, Harry, but I promise you'll be free to go once we've spent some time showing you the truth."

"Give me my wand," he demanded once again.

"No, I can't-"

"I. SAID. GIVE. ME. IT!"

Finally giving in to the terrible itching heat of the locket, Harry flung his hands to his chest, wanting to wretch off the damn chain. The moment he touched it, however, he was once again aware of a terrible lurching, tugging, as the elegant sunlit room disappeared from view.

Picking himself up off yet another floor moments later, he thought he might be sick. The motion alone had been enough to tie his stomach in knots, let alone the implication. Once again he staggered to his feet, taking in a small, cosy study filled with books. In a disorientated rush, he became aware of a man before him, seated at a desk with several heavy tomes open. It was the unmistakably the Dark Lord.

The Dark Lord who's jaw was literally hanging open, just a moment before he drew his wand in a fury.

"How the fuck did you get here, you impudent brat?" Voldemort demanded, his eyes red with fury.

Harry, already dizzy, inexplicably exhausted, and terrified managed only the words "My Lord, I think I just found the resistance."

Then he promptly fell unconscious.


	16. Chapter 16: Happy Families

** Chapter 16 **

Voldemort considered the boy's slumped, unconscious body with an expression that was a world away from the dispassionate assessment he usually gave. Truthfully, he was furious and confused in equal measure; said confusion only fanning the flames. This was his private study; the office adjoining to his bedroom – his bedroom for Salazar's sake – and until moments ago, another living soul had never entered this space. It was warded in three magical languages; protected in every conceivable sense. Protections tied to both blood and bone magic; some even darker. It should have been utterly impossible for someone – particularly a child – to apparate within. If indeed, apparration was what had occurred.

He towered above the boy, considering him. Potter was pale, his skin a sickly colour that spoke of magical exhaustion. Had he planned this? He recalled the bewildered expression on the young man's face just before he fainted –  _fainted, how pathetic_  – and decided that unlikely. Not only did he doubt the child had the capability to break his wards, no matter how clever he thought himself, he also didn't think Potter would dare. When the boy looked at him, they held the same fear and admiration as all his people. He was more fiery than most, perhaps, more daring in their recent interactions – but not in a way that spoke of open rebellion.

As he evaluated the situation, Potter began to stir, his eyelids flickering and a small groan escaping his pale lips. Voldemort lifted his wand lazily, sending the child back into an unconscious stasis. It would not do for him to wake up here, before Voldemort had decided what to do with him. As the boy twitched and relaxed again, he noticed the locket hanging loosely about his neck, and beneath it, an angry red mark marring the child's skin.

Of course, Voldemort noted with irritation. The boy might not be capable of this –  _not yet,_ an unwelcome voice in his mind chimed – but his Horcrux was. Tied to him as it was, his wards would do little to prevent it's magic forcing entry as it had. Tied to his strength, it was capable of great feats of magic indeed.

 _What remains to be seen,_ Tom thought as he eyed the boy critically.  _Is whether it's actions are tied to the boy's will, or mine._

It was a thoroughly uncomfortable thought. If the boy could somehow manipulate his own magic against him, then he would become perhaps the only wizard alive capable of damaging him. Once more, he was filled with an irrational, instinctive desire to make Harry Potter disappear. Only the memory of the fates, their musical divinations dancing in the forefront of his mind, stayed his hand. Harry Potter was a threat, but a necessary one. Perhaps even a useful one, one day. It would also be a shame to dispose of one with so much potential; the boy was talented, powerful and charismatic. Traits Voldemort wasn't entirely sure he condoned in others, but were likely necessary to the health of his empire. He needed such virtues in his generals, so long as they knew their place.

Somehow, he thought as he levitated the child out of the room, and apparated them into the parlour, he imagined teaching such a boy his place would be harder than anticipated. Especially as said boy became a man, and the naivete that kept him from fully realising the odd position he occupied in the Dark Lord's world left him.

Still, for now, he was just a child. A scared, exhausted child. Voldemort had never had much patience for children.

* * *

Harry came back to reality with an uncomfortable jolt, as the world suddenly became bright and loud. He vaguely noted that someone must have  _ennervated_  him, for that was no natural way to enter the waken world.  
He was bewildered as Professor Snape, looking unusually grim and stern, pushed a vial into his hands and ordered him to drink. He eyed it sceptically, but a particularly vicious glare had him gulping it down eagerly.

"That's disgusting," Harry struggled not to wretch, coughing to clear the foul taste from his mouth. But the weight he had not yet noticed wearing on his bones seemed to lighten, and the headache that had been fogging his mind in the brief moments he had been awake cleared immediately. Not poison, then.

He became aware that he was laid across a sofa in the middle of a grandly decorated receiving room. Sofa might be too small a word for the piece of furniture, actually, as it looked as though it was more for admiring than sitting on. He also became aware, with a growing feeling of trepidation, that standing before him were a handful of Death Eaters, and Lord Voldemort himself. His life had always been a bit strange, especially recently, but this was taking the cake. He struggled to pull himself into a sitting position and bowed his head awkwardly.

"My Lord," he said, reverently.

Voldemort seemed to have little time for formality, as he looked coldly at the boy. Harry chanced a look at the Death Eaters around him and was relieved to recognise at least three faces – Lucius, Bellatrix and Snape. Relief might be too strong of a word for Snape, but 'not terror' didn't have quite the same ring to it. Voldemort began to question him almost immediately.

"Explain the events of this evening," he ordered, simply.

Taking a steady breath, Harry did exactly that without another thought. He told them about how he had been trying to find some peace, how he had been tricked and where he had come to be. As he began to recount how the locket had begun to grow hot, Voldemort swiftly interrupted him.

"The three rebels you encountered. Describe them," Voldemort said simply, his eyes still unnervingly impassive.

"The girl, the contestant from the IDC, she's called Nymphadora McKinnon, I know that much."

A small, indrawn breath drew his attention, and the stricken look on Bellatrix' face was enough to make him hesitate for a moment.

"And, erm… The woman at the base. She, well she looked quite a lot like you, Bellatrix."

Bellatrix was shaking her head furiously, her face passing between rage and disbelief. Harry felt a flicker of fear in his chest; he had never seen Bella look as crazy as she was rumoured to be.

"Lucius," came the silky voice of the Dark Lord. Harry noticed for the first time that Lucius too, looked deeply disturbed. "Take Bellatrix and track down your niece. Do not return until you have her."

"Niece?" he blurted out, unthinkingly.

Bellatrix, who's wild anger had been searching for a target, met Harry and in a flurry he found himself pinned to the sofa with a furious Bella straddling him, her wand at his neck and her eyes feral.

"If you breathe a word of this, you filthy half-blood!" she screeched. She was almost unrecognisable to him.

His previous fear seemed to melt away in the face of how utterly indignant he was. Harry's eyes hardened, his mouth set in a firm line and his expression flashed dangerously. At sixteen, Harry was hardly thought of as a threat by a room full of Death Eaters, but he did not handle disrespect well. In a moment, he had stood so quickly that Bellatrix fell to the floor and he had trapped her wand hand beneath his foot. He glared down at her. True enough, she was likely a better duellist than he, but she hadn't expected the reaction and wasn't thinking clearly.

"I would never do anything to shame you or your family, Bella. And you fucking well know it," he seethed.

Bellatrix, as crazy as she was, seemed to deflate at this. If there was anything more terrifying than seeing her angry, it was the sudden vulnerability in that moment.

The Dark Lord chose this moment to interrupt.

"If we are quite done with this display," he said, displeasure evident, and Harry quickly released her with a sheepish look. Bellatrix rose elegantly to her feet, and with a nod to Lucius, left the room without further comment. Harry watched after her, concerned.

"My Lord-" Harry began, seeking answers to sudden burning questions.

"Severus, take Potter back to the castle and make sure he stays  _where he ought to,"_ Voldemort cut him off.

Harry stared at him, daring not to argue with him now. Not when he looked like this. On the surface, he merely looked his usual, perfectly attractive self. Fitted, dark clothing, unblemished skin and flawless features. His aura though, was screaming danger and power in a way that made Harry want to fall to his knees right there. It wasn't hard to understand how this man had come to rule the wizarding world. Still.

"My Lord, I- I don't seem to have my wand," Harry continued softly, daring himself to speak.

Prepared for anger at his further interruption, he got worse. The Dark Lord gave him only an acerbic smile, and shook his head.

"My, my, Mr Potter," came Voldemort's smooth, amused tone. "Tricked with a port key like an imbecile, and you couldn't even hold your wand. I thought you were supposed to be  _impressive_."

It was like a blow to the stomach.

He said little else as Severus took him by the elbow, and lead him from the room.

* * *

Draco Malfoy had never been more grateful for his years of etiquette training. He had once sworn that he would never forgive Madam Violetta, his childhood governess, for her endless nitpicking and criticism. The witch had spent years correcting his posture, forcing him to stop eating again and again to correct the way he held utensils, and scolding him endlessly for anything she deemed an inappropriate display of emotion. However, if it were not for her, then he was sure there was no way he'd be able to resist fidgeting, blushing or even stuttering as Hermione Black entered the restaurant that night.

It was a small, expensive establishment on the outskirts of Hogsmeade. It catered only to a specific, pureblood clientele and was the sort of place where asking for a price would be seen as terribly uncouth. It was candlelit and the tables were small, but the crystal glasses and gold trimmed plates were enough to indicate it's class. Around them, many a witch was dressed finely, in richly made robes, and elegant jewellery. Many of them were even attractive; years of grooming, and money going into the upkeep of their pristine appearances. Still, they all paled in comparison to this witch, as she entered the room.

Hermione was wearing a knee length blue dress, with an elegant shawl that showed enough skin to be breathtaking, whilst not being tacky. At her throat, a beautiful silver pendant, encrusted with a small sapphire. Her hair fell in rolling locks to her bosom, and her cheeks were flushed from the cold. Still, it was her eyes that caught his attention; warm and wild in equal measure.

As Draco stood formally, pulling out her chair for her and giving her a chaste kiss on her hand, he thought about sending Madam Violetta some flowers. Without her, he surely would have fallen over his own feet. As he returned to his own seat, his mind raced as he attempted to find something to say.

"Hermione," he began. "May I call you Hermione?"

The smallest blush crept onto the witches cheeks, as if she were a shy maiden at her debut. Draco reminded himself that Hermione was a dangerous witch, a magical force to be reckoned with, and revelled in being able to draw such a reaction from her.

"I think that would be appropriate, considering the setting, Draco."

He nodded, offering her a warm smile and was saved from speaking by a waiter offering them wine. They both accepted, and he drank deeply, hoping it would give him courage.

"You look beautiful this evening," he said, and added a little too quickly, "the dress, I mean."

Hermione dropped her gaze, and quickly touched her fingers to her neck. "Yes, well, I got it recently. I was shopping with Bellatrix today."

Draco, stunned by the mental image this gave, laughed. "Auntie Bella went shopping? Has Diagon Alley recovered?"

A mischievous smile lit up Hermione's features. "Not yet, but I'm told it should live."

"Fortunate for the alley," he added, dryly.

"Is it though? Bella took a strong liking to a particularly gloomy clothes emporium. I believe more shopping may be on the horizon," she said with a devilish smile. "I'm not sure if it will be so lucky a second time."

Draco, feigning a saddened look, took another drink. "A shame indeed then. At least she didn't set anything on fire, I suppose."

Hermione gave him a level look, which had him laughing into his glass again.

"She didn't?" he exclaimed.

"Oh she did. Someone stuck me with a pin. My dear Mother is a bit protective, it seems," she shook her head with an exasperated expression.

"Well, I don't blame her then. I'd certainly have a similar reaction if some careless oaf were to cause you pain." It had been half meant as a joke, but had come out quite zealous. Hermione blushed again, giving him a tentative smile and he cleared his throat sharply.

"I didn't think you were a big fan of fashion," he said, hoping to redirect the conversation onto safer ground.

It was the wrong thing to say. Hermione's eyes looked hurt for a moment, before cooling considerably.

"No, I didn't mean-" Draco began, and failed. "I only meant, you've never shown an interest."

"You mean because my clothes are ugly?" asked Hermione, matter-of-factly. Her tone was cold, and if he didn't mistake it, angry.

"No," Draco responded, his tone firm. "There is honestly nothing about you I would describe as ugly."

The conversation stalled again at this, but the ice around her seemed to melt and after a moment they strayed into the easier terrain of talking about classes. As time passed, and their meals were served, the conversation flowed faster and faster. He learned she hated divination, and he confessed some mildly embarrassing anecdote about wanting to be a seer as a child. She told him about how she had wanted to be an explorer, and had spent a week in the orphanage gardens with a small spade, trying to dig to the other side of the world.

Now and then, he'd throw in something regarding pure blood customs, to at least justify the meeting. He'd almost forgotten several times that it was for this purpose that he'd managed to arrange the date, and several times he was distracted by some small expression, or her laugh. He'd be reminded that this witch would someday be his wife, and was temporarily struck silent with awe. She was the only witch he wanted at his side, but the thought of forcing her into a marriage she may not want was enough to keep a constant feeling of dread in the pit of his stomach.

They were halfway through dessert when everything turned to chaos.

Draco had been in the middle of a story involving him, Harry and Blaise trying to prank Bellatrix by transfiguring her hair pink, when a patronous had burst into the restaurant.

The ethereal creature, a falcon, swept into the room causing the witches and wizards seated to rise to their feet and exclaim. Wands were drawn, and shouts of alarm were heard. Hermione had her wand out several seconds before he did; there was a reason she was the second in their year at duelling. Draco had no sooner drawn his wand, when he lowered it. A slightly tinnier version of his Father's voice emitted from the creature, filling the space.

' _Draco, take Hermione and get to Malfoy Manor immediately. There is danger. Go.'_

With a single look of assent from her, he grabbed her hand, and apparrated from the restaurant.

* * *

Harry was silent and brooding as Snape escorted him briskly to Gryffindor tower. He had expected the Professor would leave him at the portrait, perhaps after some acerbic warning about not causing trouble. Instead, he was mortified as Snape took him by the elbow, and led him through the common room. He was literally pulled through the room, fighting the angry, flushed expression and ignoring the numerous eyes that followed him as the room stilled to a stunned silence. He was taken up the stairs and into his dormitory. The Professor did not release him until he was at the foot of his bed.

"What the fuck was that about?!" Harry demanded, through gritted teeth. He was at the end of his tether today. He felt drained, and his emotions felt as though they had been stomped on by a heard of elephants.

The  _lashius_ caught him by surprise, and a nasty one at that, but he didn't give the Professor the satisfaction of seeing a reaction. His hand went for his wand, only to remember it wasn't there. Harry paled, his hands balling into fists. He was normally a playful, laid back individual but the way the last day had made him feel utterly helpless, grated on him.

"You will watch your tone, Mr Potter," drawled Snape with a vicious smile. "Our Lord demanded I make sure you stayed in your proper place, and I believe your bed is the correct place for a wayward child."

Harry was infuriated. "I did nothing wrong! They took me!"

Snape's eyes glittered dangerously, and Harry half expected another  _lashius_ , but the response was far worse.

"Mr Potter, are you forgetting that less than twenty-four hours ago, you were drunk in a lake making a mockery of the Dark Mark? That less than fourty-eight hours ago, you were alone in an alleyway-" he paused here, sneering. "-dallying – with a stranger, a grown wizard? And that all pales in comparison to the fact that because you wanted to go sulk by the dark forest – and because you were so naive as to accept an unknown object from an unknown stranger without even running a basic diagnostic spell, you were taken. And you could have been killed."

Harry had never seen Professor Snape look this angry before, and although he had no particular connection to him, his words were biting enough that he felt shame filling his stomach.

"I- I didn't-" Harry began, but Snape swiftly interrupted.

"You are fortunate to have been blessed with your Mother's wits, boy," Snape ground out. "But you have your damned Father's arrogance and foolhardiness and it will kill you like it killed him if you do not grow up and discipline yourself."

Harry, bristling at the mention of his traitor parents and already furious and ashamed, scoffed. "I don't give a fuck about my blood-traitor Father or my mudblood Mother!"

The slap took him by surprise.

It wasn't particularly hard, not enough to bruise or knock him over, and he'd certainly had worse in his life. It stung though, and the shock of this combined with the already intense emotions coursing through his body made his eyes water. He furiously blinked those tears away. Snape was talking again.

"Muggle-born she might have been, Potter, and on the wrong side. But your Mother was a brilliant witch, and if you ever live up to be half as good as she was, I will be very surprised," he hissed.

Snape said nothing further as he whirled around and stormed from the room, slamming the door behind him. Harry groaned as he heard the door lock.

"What the actual fuck was that?" he whispered to himself, as he sat down on the bed and wondered why karma was after him today.

* * *

When Hermione appeared directly into the receiving room of Malfoy Manor, her first thought was that she was grateful that she had been dressed well when whatever emergency was happening, happened. It was one of those mad, irrelevant thoughts that always pops into one's head when they're nervous or when the unexpected happens. Although Narcissa and Lucius had been quite accepting of her adoption into the family, she was still nervous around them, and imagined if she'd been wearing the sort of comfortable, oversized robes she wore when she was studying then she'd be even more so.

Lucius wasn't there when they arrived, but Narcissa was. She looked calm, but stoic. She nodded at them, from where she was standing by the fire. When Draco opened his mouth, she silenced him with a small gesture.

"I do not know all the details, and your Father is yet to return. All I know is that Harry has been taken from the grounds; the wards alerted your Aunt, and then they received an urgent call from our Lord. Your Father called you back here in case there was some sort of threat," she said it all in a succinct, almost cold way. However, Hermione was good at reading people, and she could see the worry in her eyes. She knew she was fond of Harry, he had a way of worming his way into the coldest of hearts.

"Where is he?!" demanded Draco, his composure immediately slipping away.

"I do not know, Draco," his Mother reiterated, soothingly. "We will have to wait for your Father to return."

"We have to go find him," Draco announced, his tone already assured. "We need to leave now."

Although her own stomach was in knots with concern, Hermione sighed and shook her head. "Draco, there is nothing we can do but wait. We don't know where Harry is, and if your Father and my Mother are already searching, then there is little more we can do to help. We're only sixteen."

Narcissa nodded, through her concern, a look of approval.

"But-" Draco began, then deflated. He was no Gryffindor, and he understood she was right. "Fuck Potter, you better be alright," he whispered, sitting down heavily as Hermione took a seat beside him.

Time passed. According to the ornate clock in the corner of the room, it had only been twenty minutes, but to Hermione it felt like hours. Harry was her best friend – her brother, really – and she didn't know where he was, or if he was hurt. Harry was clever and talented, quicker with his wand than anyone, but he was still just a kid and his temper could be a problem. Or if he acted recklessly. She dug her nails into the palm of her hand and worried her lip. Narcissa gave her a consoling smile when they made eye contact. The minutes were dragging on.

Finally, Lucius arrived, and not alone. With him, came her Mother and in her arms, the immobilised form of a girl with black hair and deeply frightened eyes.

"Lucius?" Narcissa demanded, as they all rose to their feet again. Narcissa looked livid, assumably that they had brought some sort of fugitive into their home.

Lucius expression was grim, and Bellatrix did not even spare a glance at Hermione.

"Mother?" Hermione asked tentatively. "What's going on? Is Harry okay?"

Bellatrix finally looked away from where she had been glaring at the stilled young woman and to her adoptive daughter. The look on her face frightened Hermione, and her eyes widened. If she didn't trust Bella so implicitly she would have drawn her wand.

"Potter is fine, Hermione. He was fortunate to escape when my little niece here, captured him," she spat, her expression wild.

Narcissa's whole countenance shifted, from confused to shock, and then finally anger.

"Niece?" she demanded. Narcissa approached the young woman, looking into her eyes and taking her in, before she shook her head. Something like sorrow hung in the air between them. "Nymphadora. She's alive."

"Alive, and a member of the resistance it would seem," added Lucius coldly. "Along with her Mother."

Narcissa whirled around to face her husband. "Andromeda is also alive? But how? She-" Her expression darkened again, growing almost as terrifying as her sisters. "She betrayed us."

Lucius nodded grimly. Draco had paled and was conspicuously silent throughout the interaction. Only Hermione seemed to have no idea what was going on.

"Can someone please explain to me what on earth is going on?" she demanded. At the uneasy expressions of those around her, she said in an equally demanding tone. "Am I not a member of this family also?"

Bellatrix's frosty expression thawed ever so slightly. "Of course, my darling."

Her Mother gave her a brief rundown of the events of the night. That Nymphadora had tricked Harry into taking a portkey, that Harry had somehow – and this was unexplained – managed to escape to the Dark Lord's residence where he had been questioned, and that he had revealed the identities of his captors, the resistance.

"Harry is very lucky," Lucius said gravely. "It could have been much worse."

Hermione nodded, relieved that he was alright, if no doubt shaken up. She pressed on.

"Who is Andromeda, and why did you think she was dead? And this is her daughter?" she asked, connecting the dots.

Narcissa took over. "Andromeda was – or it would seem is – our sister. We were close as children, happy even. But during the war, Andromeda was… confused. We found out she had a lover that was muggleborn, and of course she had to leave him. Well, unfortunately she was..." Narcissa trailed off, seeming unsure how to continue.

"Knocked up," Bellatrix offered, easily.

Narcissa gave her an exasperated look, but continued. "Yes, well. Yes. Our parents were furious, of course. We thought they'd kill her, but Bellatrix prevented them doing so, calling it a childish mistake. They accepted this, but our Father. He was..." she trailed off again.

"A very cruel and ruthless bastard," Bellatrix added again.

This time Narcissa didn't look offended. "Yes. He killed the muggleborn. Andromeda was devastated, but she did what was proper. We arranged a marriage for her to cover the scandal, which she went along with. Although Andromeda was a ghost until the day the child arrived. Then Dor-Nymphadora became her whole world. She was a very bright, happy thing. We thought she was better, but she was becoming more and more outspoken. She didn't like our Lord, or the Dark. We kept her away from other purebloods more and more, concerned she'd bring shame to the family – or worse, put herself in danger – by declaring her allegiances. Her husband, a prominent American pureblood, grew tired of her antics and left her. She only got worse then."

Narcissa took a deceptively deep drink of wine from a goblet, and continued. "When the war was won, we thought it was over. That she'd accept our side and get on with raising little Nymphadora, who was five or six at this point. But then out of nowhere, she announced she was remarrying. A pureblood this time, but a very prominent blood traitor. Fallon McKinnon," Narcissa paused again, sighing deeply.

"We didn't get there in time. She had already told Mother and Father, and Father had been furious. According to our Mother, he had attacked Andromeda, killing Nymphadora in a rage. Mother had tried to prevent him killing Andromeda, but could not. According to Mother, when he saw the bodies of his daughter and granddaughter, even his old, horrible heart couldn't take it, and he took his own life then and there."

Hermione had gone very still. It was one of the most harrowing things she had ever heard, and she hadn't even known it about her own family. She shook her head, lost for words.

"But- but that's not true then? They're alive?" Hermione said, trying to find some silver lining to this.

Lucius nodded. "Now instead of having a dead Father-in-law, sister-in-law and niece – It would seem it's just the dead Father-in-law and two traitors."

Bellatrix shook her head and clenched her fists. A vase exploded nearby.

The young woman, Nymphadora, had somehow changed her hair from black to dark blue despite her stasis. Hermione looked at her for a long moment.

"It's not her fault," Hermione said suddenly, firmly.

"What?" demanded Bellatrix. "This girl tried to hand your best friend to the resistance."

Hermione nodded, trying not to waver her in her resolve. It was obvious there was some familial connection here. Narcissa looked at her niece with some old, buried longing. Bellatrix with an anger that could only be born of attachment. Even Lucius looked unsure of himself. Hermione knew in her heart that once, her family had loved this woman, when she was very small.

"She would have been what, five or six then? I doubt she had a choice. It's not her fault that they took her."

Bellatrix opened her mouth, then shut it again. Then growled. "It doesn't matter. She committed treason, and I would be very surprised if the Dark Lord does not order her execution when he's finished questioning her."

"You can persuade him," Hermione implored. "She's your niece, Mother. She's our family. The resistance might have brainwashed her, but look at her-" she gestured. "Look at her eyes, they're like yours. Look at how defiant she looks, even as she must know how bad the situation is and was when you caught her? She's our family. Her mother made a choice, but what if she never had one. So she's been brainwashed – she deserves a chance at least."

Hermione had a soft heart for those close to her, and although she did not know Nymphadora, she had embraced this family entirely. She was also an empathetic and intuitive person – and understood what products they were of their environment. Perhaps if she had been raised by the light, with someone like Albus Dumbledore in charge, she'd be out there with the infamous Order of the Phoenix, trying to take down the Dark Lord – as ridiculous as that thought seemed.

"Imagine it was me or Draco that they had, Mother, Aunt Narcissa. Wouldn't you hope they'd do the same."

Lucius considered the idea, while the sisters seemed deeply torn. Draco remained silent, but moved to stand at her side. Non-verbally expressing his support.

"No one was harmed, and she is a member of our family. Perhaps if we can get her to turn on the light, the Dark Lord can be persuaded," said Lucius, thoughtfully.

Hermione after noting that Nymphadora was unarmed, lifted her wand and unfroze the girl, who stumbled slightly before backing off from them.

"Nymphadora, my name is Hermione, I'm your cousin and we need you to listen to us," Hermione began carefully, addressing the frightened woman.

A resolve seemed to set in as the woman squared her shoulder and lifted her chin, her dark hair shifting to red. "Hello Hermione. I am Nymphadora McKinnon, a member of The Order of the Phoenix. You are not my family, and I will die before I turn on the light," she spat.

"Well. Shit," said Draco.

Hermione agreed.


	17. Chapter 17: Secrets

Chapter 17

**Hogwarts – 2nd November**

The hours before the others returned were long. He hadn't seen Blaise as Snape had dragged him through the common room, and had to assume he was still preoccupied elsewhere, likely with Daphne. The others had probably been warned off returning to their dormitory early by Snape, and he resigned himself to the hours alone with his thoughts.

Well, not quite alone.

_'You haven't been here to pet me in an age,'_ complained Ember, who had grown significantly bigger over the last months, and was wrapped around his neck. She was irritated with him, but still nuzzled against his palm. His dark mood must have been evident for her to forget her own ire.

"I've been busy," he replied, tiredly.

' _Too busy for Ember?'_ asked the snake, indignant and haughty.

"Of course not. I'm sorry. I've just had a lot on my mind," he responded, stroking her scales absent-mindedly.

' _You humans always do,'_ said Ember in exasperation, before resting her head on Harry's chest. " _What troubles you?"_

He sighed. "Everything seems to have gone wrong so quickly. I was happy about getting through to the British Championships, but then..." he couldn't be bothered to explain all the events of the last day, his sense of exhaustion was too great, so he just sighed. "And I've lost my wand. I need to be training now and I don't even have a wand."

Ember was not a creature who listened to whining easily; she didn't understand it. It was unusual for her to invite Harry to complain, but as he slumped back on the bed, she seemed to perk up.

_"Ember knows where a wand is. Ember has been very busy. I have made friends."_

"Friends?" he demanded, suddenly alert. "Ember you aren't supposed to alert others to your existence. How did you even make a friend? Is it another speaker?"

Ember gave him an imperious look, which was a funny thing to see on a snake, that seemed to say 'are you quite finished?' So Harry stopped.

" _My friend is another snake, foolish human. There are few of your kind I can tolerate, unless I'm hungry enough."_

Harry looked perplexed. "And your new snake friend has a wand?"

_"Don't be foolish,"_ snapped Ember. " _We have no need for such things. He guards a wand, and many other things. Precious things."_

"Guards?" Harry questioned, only more confused now. "Here in the castle?"

Ember bobbed her head, nodding. An expression she had learned from him, and he vaguely wondered if she noticed when she did it. " _He was sleeping for a long time, but he wakes now. He talked to Ember for a long time; he was interested to meet another speaker. His master is the only one he's met in a millennia."_

Comprehension dawned on Harry, suddenly. When one read as much as Harry did, and had a Slytherin friend who read even more than that, it was impossible not to connect the dots. "Ember, have you – have you found the Chamber of Secrets? And it's guarded by- by a snake?"

" _I believe you humans would call him a basilisk."_

* * *

**Malfoy Manor – 3rd November**

After almost twenty-four hours of attempting to talk to Nymphadora. Of trying to convince her she had been brainwashed, and to declare her loyalty to Lord Voldemort, Draco Malfoy gave up. He liked to think he understood a lost cause when he saw one. The same could not be said of Hermione.

Draco admired Hermione; her fire, her power, her intelligence and wit. He imagined there would come a day that he would love everything about his future wife. Today, however, was not that day.

"It's hopeless, Hermione!" he exclaimed, his tone sharper than expected. He had his Father's temper. "You heard her. She's made her choice; she isn't going to suddenly come over to our side."

Hermione, already irritated, became incensed. "So we let them put her down? Imagine if it was us, Draco! Imagine if Andromeda took one of us!"

"But she didn't, did she?" he hissed. "We're safe and alive, and the blood traitor is here, and we should be thinking about using her to get to the rebels, not playing happy families!"

Hermione's eyes danced with fury. Draco could understand what of herself that Bellatrix saw in Hermione. Looking at her, all the stories of crazy Bella Black were suddenly in the forefront of his mind.

Close by, an amused expression on her wary face, Nymphadora sat at a coffee table. Wandless and magically bound to the table, she wasn't a threat, but Draco thought she looked to be enjoying their argument a little too much. His temper rising, he lifted his wand and cast a nasty stinging hex at the smug expression.

Nymphadora hissed, her amused face becoming as stormy as his future wife's, and he thought he heard something along the lines of 'pureblood prick' before the back of Hermione's hand connected with his face, sending him sprawling to the ground.

"Is that the type of man you are?" barked Hermione, her wild hair seeming to frizz with her electric anger. "To hex unarmed witches for upsetting you?"

There was something menacing about her demeanour. Draco reached for his wand, only planning to put up a protego – he'd never harm Hermione, even feelings aside, she was Bellatrix Lestrange's daughter – but was disarmed in seconds.

Neither paid much attention to the suddenly pensive expression on the face of the nearby Nymphadora. They were too busy screaming at each other.

Draco, face stinging and humiliated by how utterly outclassed he was by the witch's skill, jumped to his feet. "Do. Not. Do. That," he demanded through gritted teeth.

Hermione barked a short, humourless laugh. "Do what, Draco? Stop you abusing defenceless members of our family? Gods, I pity the woman that marries you!"

It was clear Hermione had completely lost her temper, but the last comment was enough to drive Draco over the edge. "Well that's fucking unfortunate Hermione, because it's you."

Hermione's anger melted to confusion, especially as Draco paled considerably, looking as though he wished he could swallow the words he'd just shouted.

"Excuse me?" Hermione asked, perplexed.

"I-Nothing, I didn't mean-"

Behind them, Nymphadora snorted nastily. As Hermione turned, clearly wondering what the witch could possibly know about this, Nymphadora's expression turned positively acidic.

"Oh isn't it obvious? Your marriage is arranged, love. To your cousin. Christ, Mum was right about this side of the family..." Nymphadora muttered, her hair a dark green.

Draco would have cursed her again, had he his wand.

Hermione's expression didn't betray any anger or hurt, and for a moment, Draco let himself believe she didn't mind. That she might even be pleased by it. Until he met her eyes.

Evidently, Hermione had not believed Nymphadora's words until she'd met his eyes, heard the absence of a denial. Then her own eyes went wide, and for the first time he saw her frightened.

She began to back towards the double doors of the room, her mouth open and horrified. "No. No. Absolutely not. I am not being some housewife just because a Malfoy demands it to be so!"

"Hermione, I- Please-" he began.

But she'd already left the room, slamming the door behind her.

* * *

_Dear Harry,_

_I'm writing this from one of the black estates. I can't say which – fidelius charm – but I'm safe and well. I've decided to take a short absence from Hogwarts. Probably no longer than a week or two. I just need some space and time at the moment, to think a few things over. I'm so sorry I haven't been to see you yet since the ordeal with the rebellion, but please know I have my reasons._

_I love you very much, Harry._

_Your sister,_   
_Hermione._

* * *

_Dear Harry,_

_I'm afraid there has been some family business come up that urgently needs attending to. I can't say what in a letter, but I will update your properly when next we meet. I don't know how long that will be, given this business relates to the Dark Lord and can hardly be expected to work around a class schedule, but I hope to be back before the start of December. Know that if required, you may contact me by floo, as always._

_Your friend,  
Draco._

_PS – Well done on avoiding an untimely death yet again, you mad bastard._

* * *

_Hey mate – sorry to leave in a rush like this, but you were fast asleep and I know you haven't been sleeping well this last week. I've had to go see my Mother in Italy. She's unwell, apparently. Don't know how serious it is, she might just want my attention. Hope to be back in a few days. - Blaise._

* * *

The absence of his closest friends might have annoyed him, given that in the past week he'd qualified for an international competition, had been slandered in the press, kidnapped and had a confrontation with the Dark Lord. He might have used some support. However, it was undeniably convenient. Using Ember as his guide, he began to hunt for an entrance to the Chamber that didn't involve climbing through filthy pipes; having his friends around might have raised too many unwanted questions. So he penned them short missives saying he was fine, and promising to tell them all about it when they returned, and threw himself wholeheartedly into the search.

It took almost a week. Not bad, considering as far as he knew, students had been searching out the Chamber for centuries. Being a Parselmouth with a sociable pet snake certainly helped. After narrowing down the entrance to a particular area of the second floor, and having a short conversation with a particularly irksome ghost, Harry found himself staring down a gaping black tunnel, lit only by the light of dusk.

" _Stairs?"_ he asked, hopefully, and was pleased when a spiral staircase materialised before him. Ember, who was wrapped around his neck, hissed her approval. Around his neck, the locket tingled pleasantly. He needed no further encouragement.

He descended into the earth. Further and further, a few steps at a time, hardly able to see his hand in front of him. He had no conception of how far he had gone, how much time had passed. It seemed a very long time before his feet finally came into contact with solid earth and by then the mild light of the bathroom above him was like a dim moon in a distant sky.

" _Close,"_ he said, and was both relieved and a little frightened as the entrance above him closed, blinking out the only familiar sight.

Ember was strangely quiet and subdued as he continued through the antechamber, only hissing in approval as he found the entrance proper, encouraging him on. With a hiss, a door before him opened, and the bright lights of a hundred torches lighting at once left him blinking rapidly. Knowing the danger he was in, he kept his wand in his hand, and his eyes trained on the floor as he stepped inside.

Ember warned him to stay put, and she slithered down his body and away into the chamber. He watched her go, and did as she had asked, but it took every ounce of will power he had not to move as the sudden shifting of something much larger than ember or himself made itself heard. Eyes trained on the stone below him, he kept himself very still.

" _So, little speaker, you have finally found your way to my home,"_ boomed the low, rich and unmistakeably serpent voice.

He struggled to find his voice for a moment, mentally flipping through everything he had ever read or heard about basilisks. " _Yes, your majesty. I am honoured to make your acquaintance. I am Harry Potter."_

Harry would never get used to the sound of a snake laughing, but it was particularly strange coming from an unseen basilisk. It seemed to fill the cavernous space entirely.

" _Look at me, little speaker,"_ ordered the creature, it's words still tinged with amusement.

" _But-"_

"If I wanted to harm you, little one, I could do it in one strike,"

he reasoned.

Cursing his own foolhardiness, he looked up and straight into the eyes of the basilisk. Harry was surprised to find himself not dead, shortly thereafter.

" _I thought..."_

"Speakers are immune to the powers of a basilisk. It is how we came to be their greatest allies."

"Oh,"

breathed Harry, relieved.

_"Of course, our venom is still the most toxic substance on earth, even to speakers."_

"Oh."

"Now what brings you here, child. It's been some time since I had a visitor."

"Well. Ember mentioned that

_you had a wand, and I thought-"_

"That I'd just

_**give**_ _you the wand of Salazar Slytherin?"_ asked the basilisk, tone amused.

" _Salazar..."_ Harry whispered, awed. It hadn't occurred to him that the wand would have belonged to Salazar Slytherin himself; rather some other visitor to the chamber.

The basilisk laughed again. " _Ember, my friend, I thought you said the boy was bright."_

"No common sense, your majesty,"

agreed Ember.

" _And what makes you think you're worthy of it, child? I see by your appearance, you do not even belong to the house of my master. Something that would sorely disappoint him, in one of his heirs."_

Harry didn't pause. He knew he was worthy. " _I am powerful. I will be more powerful as I grow. I ought to have a wand that will aid me,"_ he said. His real wand had been powerful, but he doubted he'd ever see it again now.

The basilisk stilled. It wouldn't have been noticeable, if Harry weren't watching it so closely. The pupils in it's yellow, glowing eyes seemed to dilate slightly. After a long moment, it spoke.

" _You sound like him. Are you sure he did not sire you?"_

"Like who?"

he asked, now more confused.

" _The last heir to find me. Tom Riddle."_

The name wasn't familiar, which was somewhat disappointing to him. He had assumed the last heir would be the only other parselmouth he knew – Voldemort.

" _And did Tom Riddle not want the wand?"_

"He both wanted the wand, and used it. However, he returned it to me some years ago. He found a wand even more powerful than this one; and he stored many items here; to be protected by me, should he ever require them again."

"What happened to him? Is he still alive?"

The snake appeared to consider for a moment. " _I think it best if you figure that one out for yourself, young speaker."_

A door to the far right of the cavern opened, despite the basilisk having not moved, nor even gestured. It seemed the giant snake had it's own sort of magic; Harry vowed to research that at a later date, and filed the knowledge away.

" _You are welcome to any of the treasures of this chamber. It is your birthright. I ask that you return what you no longer need. Don't worry too much, however, as whatever you lose or have on your possession in death will return to the chamber upon your passing."_

With that slightly morbid fact noted, Harry left Ember to chat with her 'friend' and headed for the door, excitement bubbling in his chest.

* * *

**Meanwhile in Italy**

"Mother, this is madness! You're gravely ill. This is the sickness talking," said Blaise, frantically.

The once beautiful form of Andorra Zabini lay deathly pale in her four-poster bed. The dark silk around her only served to extenuate her pallor; her dark skin a sickly grey. Her once long, thick head of hair lay limp about her, caked in sweat. Her piercing brown eyes bloodshot. His Mother didn't just look unwell, she looked like she'd died sometime last week. He was unspeakably angry that no one had contacted him sooner, but he couldn't bring himself to reprimand the woman.

"It is not madness, my sweet child," she said firmly. Her voice, and the strength of personality behind it, was the one part of his Mother that seemed unchanged. Hel herself would have to drag her to the underworld before her will broke. "I have kept this from you for your entire life, and would have kept it a while longer, but I fear my time in this world is brief."

Blaise sat upon the bed, putting his head in his hands and trying to keep the tears that threatened from falling. His throat burned and his chest ached. He had always resented his Mother; resented the constant parade of victims she called husbands. Wished for a closeness they seldom had. Still, he loved her, and she was his Mother.

The healers came in at regular intervals, feeding her potions and trying to tell him in that roundabout way Healers do, that she was almost certainly going to die. The disease she'd picked up whilst travelling through Romania was rare, but insidious. It had been building in her system for months, and only now did she call him to her side.

"Mother, this is delirium. I know who my Father is, and it most certainly isn't… Serious Black?"

"Sirius," she corrected gently. "And he is, Blaise."

"I've seen my birth record!" he exclaimed in anger, that quickly cooled as his Mother fell into another coughing fit.

"Faked. It was a difficult time, amore. The war raged on, and your Father was near the top of the Dark Lord's list, as one of Dumbeldore's most loyal. I wanted you to be safe, and so I came back to Italy, my childhood home."

"But… why?" Blaise demanded. What little hair he had was clenched tightly in his hands. This was too much. He had lost a Mother, and found a Father. That is, if he was still alive, as his Mother claimed him to be despite all evidence. "Why him?"

His Mother smiled, her eyes far away for a moment in a way that was frightening in someone so close to the end. "I loved him, my darling. The only man I ever loved, until you, my darling son."

"But why? He was a traitor!" he stormed, struggling even now to check his temper.

For a moment, a look of concern washed over his Mother's face. "My sweet. The world isn't so black and white as you might believe. In the moments we were together, there was no darkness or light. There was just him, and I, and passion. I admit, when the war took him away from me – I grew to hate every other man that would dare to take his place. They didn't have his fire, and so they would burn."

Andorra Zabini was a dark witch. Dark to her core. She'd killed without mercy, performed rites that'd whiten the hair of a lesser being, and been utterly unapologetic about it for most of her life. Given different circumstances, she could have been another Bellatrix Lestrange. Yet, in that moment, there was something profoundly vulnerable about her. Something that spoke of deep regret; something that could never be taken back.

"I doubt your Father would care for the things I have done, my sweet. Although he'd understand more than he could ever admit. I tell you this now because you deserve to know, before I leave this world. I shall not leave you alone," she whispered this last part. Her voice catching, as if she too were holding back tears. In sixteen years, Blaise had never seen his indomitable Mother cry. It drew the last shred of self control from him, and his own tears fell.

"Mother," he whispered. "Please. Please don't go. I...I need you, Mum. Please."

She put a cold hand to his face, stroking his cheek for a moment, her eyes watering but her posture proud. Familiar. "My son, I will always be with you. I will always be watching over you. When your enemies fall before you, you will know. You will know that your Mother is there. In a life of riches, power and passion – you, my love. You were my greatest achievement."

He cried ugly tears then. He cried into the silk of his Mother's bedsheets, and stayed there long into the night.

"Does anyone else know? About my Father?" he asked quietly, when he was sure his Mother was awake.

Her voice was weaker now. Strained. She'd had twice as many potions in the last hour as the hour before that, and the Healers' expression was gravely serious.

"Only two others ever knew. His best friend, James Potter, and his brother, Regulus," she whispered.

It had not occurred to him until then that Sirius Black, though obviously a member of the House of Black, was the brother of his professor. However, the shock of this was completely overshadowed by the shock of the former.

"Harry's Father? Harry's Father was my Father's best friend?" he asked softly.

"Yes," she smiled, a shadow of what might have been amusement passing over her face. "When you first told me about your friendship with little Harry, I couldn't help but smile. You know I don't usually abide half-bloods, but my he looks like James, and James was a good man. Too good, perhaps. It's what killed him."

"You knew James Potter?" he balked.

"Not well. I met him only twice. Your Father trusted him, though. Loved him as a brother, even. That was enough. Sirius was a good judge of character."

He nodded. He kept wondering exactly what he was going to do with the information, now he had it. Could his Mother be right? Could Sirius Black – his Father – truly be alive?

"Do you… Do you want me to try to find him?"

Silence. His Mother had fallen back into fitful sleep.

He remained beside her as he considered all the implications of what his Mother had said. He remained beside her for long into the night, his mind full of buzzing, often painful thoughts. He remained beside her until the soft rise and fall of her chest ceased, and then all thoughts left him, replaced only by a hollow, bitter grief. It wasn't fair.

* * *

_Dear Hermione,_

_I'm sorry._

_I've written this letter out again and again these last days, and not once have the words seemed right. This is the best I can do._

_Please understand this wasn't my choice. It was arranged for me, as it was arranged for you._

_This isn't how I want things to be between us. You are not the type of witch to be owned._

_I don't think I can change our parents minds about this marriage, but I can at least buy you a few more years of freedom. I've decided to leave Hogwarts after Christmas to pursue a Potions apprenticeship with a Master in America. It will last a period of three years._

_Please understand, this is the only way I know how to show you how sorry I am, that this has been forced upon you. You deserve better._

_Draco Malfoy._

The letter burned in Hermione's hands. Her heart felt like it was breaking in two. Draco Malfoy, the boy who made her feel like no other, was being forced to marry her. Forced, and was so appalled by the notion of being her husband that he was fleeing to the other side of the world. Just to get away from her.

She had no tears left that night.

* * *

**The Chamber**

The Chamber of Secrets was living up to its reputation. The adjoining room to the main chamber made the basilisk seem anti-climactic by comparison. Thousands of books, stacked high to the ceiling lined the walls on either side. Magical artefacts, weapons and potions still in stasis sat in elaborate glass cases dotted around the room. More than that, the whole Chamber was saturated with ancient magic; dark as night.

Harry felt like a child seeing Honeydukes for the first time. He opened book after book, trusting Slytherin to not want to curse any of his descendent. Many of them were indecipherable; written in Greek and Arabic. Some were Latin, which he could just about understand, though not comfortably. Countless books were written in Parselscript, something he recognised easily from his ill advised venture into blood magic.

The potions were even more curious. They had no description, just instructions as to how to create them. He wondered if there was anymore information on them elsewhere in the room, but unless it was obvious, it could take him years to find such answers. The weapons were vicious. Cursed blades, arrows and other sinister looking devices, each warning of devastating effects. A particularly vivid description of a weapon that, once having drawn blood, would render it unable to heal or the flow to be staunched, had Harry backing away carefully from this section.

At first he tried sorting through the books and objects systematically; considering them all before deciding what to take. Before long, however, the pile grew too large and the time taken was too great. So he began grabbing books at random; whatever he felt drawn to or struck his fancy.

He wasn't sure how much time passed before he finally found the wand; sitting regally at a dais at the end of the room, but it had likely been hours. Partly out of impatience, and partly out of an urgent need to know the time, he stopped his perusal of the books and went immediately to it.

An unexpected level of trepidation filled him. What if the wand rejected him? What if it was cursed to only accept purebloods? However, it didn't take him long to realise he had no choice. Of course he could have gone and got a new wand from Ollivanders, but it was unlikely to be as powerful as his original. It was very unlikely to be as powerful as this wand.

After a steadying breath, he reached out and took it.

His whole body began to tingle. Like pins and needles, but slightly more pleasant. His locket grew pleasantly warm again, and he'd grown to see this as a positive sign. The wand felt smooth and comfortable in his hand and he knew instinctively that the wand 'liked' him, if such a thing were possible. He wasn't sure, however, that he was yet its master. He had won it from no one, and as such, mastering it would take time. Hopefully sooner, rather than later.

He cast a  _tempus_ , and was relieved when it worked. It was almost five in the morning. He ought to be going. He could always come back, now he knew the way here, and it's resident monster appeared to like him well enough.

On his way out of the room, he picked up the books he had chosen, and shrunk them small enough to fit into his pocket. He had been resting them on one of the glass cases, and when he picked them up, he looked for the first time at the contents of the case. Unlike the other cases, the contents of this one seemed more mundane. A leather bound book; a journal of some sort. Looking closer, his eyes widened in recognition. The front cover read "Tom Marvolo Riddle".

With little hesitation, he opened the case and took it, ignoring the strange tickling sensation emanating from the locket. A new sensation.

On his way out, he picked up Ember, who had been deep in conversation with the basilisk about the differing size of rats between this millennia and the last. He interrupted them cautiously.

" _Do you have a name?"_ he asked the basilisk, cordially.

" _I have had many names. My most recent would likely serve you best – Serefen. That was given to me by my last ward."_

"Tom Riddle?"

"Yes."

"Serefen – Tom Riddle – is he alive?"

The basilisk eyed him for a moment – an intimidating thing in of itself – before responding. " _Yes. I would know, were he not."_

"Do you think he'll- well, will he mind that I've been here?"

asked Harry, mentally adding 'and stolen his diary.'

The basilisk chuckled; a long, drawn out laugh filled with an especially serpentine mirth. " _Yes, young speaker. He will definitely 'mind'. Still, aren't you Gryffindors supposed to be brave?"_

Harry left in a hurry.

* * *

"My name is Harry Potter."   
**  
** "Hello Harry Potter. My name is Tom Riddle."

* * *

 


End file.
